Time Immemorial
by Sita Z
Summary: Trip and Malcolm are stranded in an unknown place with no memory of Enterprise or who they are. Friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Almighty Paramount owns it all, except for the original characters that are part of this story.

Author's Note: Yes, another lo-o-ong story, and I can't thank my wonderful beta readers Gabi and Romanse enough for putting up with me. This story wouldn't have been finished without you -group hugs her betas-!

I should probably let you know that this story contains a bit of a mystery, and I hope you'll bear with me for a while. Eventually, all questions will be answered :).

As usual, I'll be updating every two or three days; feedback of any kind is very much appreciated! I've been struggling with this monster for ages, and it would make me very happy (and speed up my posting) if you let me know what you think!

Thank you, and... enjoy!

* * *

It was the smell of oil and dirt that woke him up. He swallowed and realized that it wasn't so much a smell as a taste in his mouth, of grease and grime and things not meant for human consumption. He coughed, and noticed that there was something hard pressing against his cheek. Something that felt like stone.

He opened his eyes. It was a pavement. His hand lay only centimeters away from his face and as he raised it, wincing at its soreness, he saw in what little light there was that it was as grimy as the taste on his tongue. He must have lain here for a while.

He blinked and slowly, his surroundings turned from blurred shapes into things. Things that cast dark shadows, that he didn't recognized at all. Things that made no sense to him.

Moving slowly, he placed both his hands on the stony ground and pushed himself up. His joints ached dully and there was a prickling pain in his left arm, which must have gone to sleep. The vile taste in his mouth was still there, and he spat out, only to find that there was hardly enough moisture in his mouth for him to do so. His throat felt raw and ached from the lack of water.

When he had finally reached a sitting position, he looked at his surroundings once again, but they made no more sense than they had a minute ago. He was in some sort of dark alley, with high brick walls on either side and various things cluttered on the paved ground. Something dark and square loomed up on his right, and he squinted, recognizing it as a waste container whose lid didn't quite close on the large pile of garbage inside. An old carton filled with broken bottles sat on the ground beside it, as well as an old chair and a plastic bag full of things he couldn't quite make out in the dim light of the streetlamp further down the alley. He could smell them just fine, though, and found his nausea returning as a result.

How had he come to be here?

He swallowed. It was cold here, wherever "here" was, and the overall he was wearing was damp from lying on the ground. He knew this wasn't right, that he was supposed to be somewhere else, but where, he had no idea. All he knew that this place frightened him in a way he could not understand.

Something moved next to the waste container, and he jumped, turning around.

"Who..."

Two green spots glittered in the darkness, and a moment later a small shadow darted out of its hiding place between wall and container, crouching in the middle of the street. It was a cat. He stared at it, and it met his gaze, its large green eyes glowing like emeralds. Then it blinked and continued its way, stalking towards the other end of the alley with its tail raised high in the air. It had obviously decided that he posed no threat.

_Good thing Porthos isn't here_, he thought, then frowned. He had no idea who or what Porthos was, or why it was a good thing that he wasn't here with him and the cat. It was as if the thought had come out of nowhere, from a place deep inside his mind that he could not access. He knew he should know who Porthos was, that he should know just what was wrong here, but he didn't. It was as simple as that, and it scared him in a way he could not have explained.

He wiped his hands on the trousers of his jumpsuit and got up. His muscles were sore and he felt cold all over from lying on the pavement where he must have passed out. Why had he passed out? He could not remember, like he could not remember much else. There seemed little else in his mind except that he was cold, sore, thirsty and scared.

"Charles," he said, and wrapped his arms around himself. "Charles... Tucker. Trip."

The sound of his own voice was calming in its familiarity, as were the words he had spoken. Charles Tucker, _Trip_, that was his name. He knew that. Who was Charles Tucker? He did not know. All he knew was that he, the person who had woken up in this dark and dirty backstreet, was called Charles Tucker, and that he should not be here. He also knew that there was more that he should know, a lot more that would have helped him understand what was going on here, buried somewhere in his mind. But he could not seem to go there, any more than someone caught in a nightmare couldn't wake up on their own accord, even if they realizes that they were only dreaming.

He shivered, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. Far away, he could hear the sound of traffic, although something seemed wrong with it, as well. Everything here seemed wrong, strange, and it wasn't only the shabbiness of the place. It was the way it _felt._

Slowly, almost without realizing what he was doing, he began to walk towards the bright halo the streetlamp had painted on the pavement. Further down, he could see the alley ending into another street, one that was lit with more streetlamps. It seemed a good idea to go there... maybe he would encounter something he would recognize. Or someone who would recognize Charles Tucker.

Something crunched under his boot. He looked down and saw that he had stepped on a piece of glass, one of many that lay scattered on the pavement. Somehow, the sound stopped him, froze him in place. He had no idea where the glass had come from. Maybe someone had dropped a bottle, maybe a window had broken and no one had bothered to clean up the shards - the thing was that he didn't know. _He didn't know. _

For a moment or two, he only stared down at the broken glass, unable to set another foot in front of the other and continue down the alley. He was still shivering, and could not seem to stop. _Charles Tucker_, he thought, as if the name might trigger something - memories, images, whatever - in his mind. _Charles Tucker. Trip. The third. Trip Tucker._

There was nothing. He closed his eyes and suddenly the nausea rose in his throat, along with a taste so vile that he could no longer ignore it. He bent forward with his arms wrapped around his midsection and began to heave, once, twice. His vomit hit the pavement with a dull splattering sound, and he opened his eyes again, inhaling deeply before he straightened up. The nausea was still there, but it was bearable now, as was the pain in his midriff. It seemed that along with the contents of his stomach, he had rid himself of the repulsive taste.

Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned his head, expecting to see that the cat had returned, maybe to check if the intruder on its territory was still there. It was not the cat, however. Something - someone - was lying on the ground on the other side of the garbage container, almost hidden in the shadows. He could not even make out whether it was a man or a woman, only that it was a person. A person that was stirring as if waking up from a long sleep.

He didn't move, not sure whether this new development was good or bad. The person stirred again, coughing quietly, then raised a hand to his head as if to ward off a sudden pain. The way the person moved was familiar, although he had no idea why that would be so. Nothing here was familiar, he didn't even know who _he_ was, so how could he recognize this person?

The person - after the cough, he had realized that it was a man - began to sit up, moving as slowly and carefully as he had before. Now that he was no longer lying down, his features were outlined by the light, and they, too, seemed strangely familiar.

Not sure whether he was doing the right thing, he (_Trip, my name is Trip_) walked a step closer. The man on the ground had noticed the movement and raised his head, his face now visible in the light of the lamp. Widened gray eyes met Trip's own, and he realized that he knew this man with the dark hair and sharp cheekbones.

"Malcolm," he said, again surprised at hearing his own voice. This man was called Malcolm Reed; he knew that the way he knew that he himself was Charles Tucker.

The man gave no answer and only stared at him, like the cat had done before. For a strange moment, Trip imagined the man scrambling out of the shadows and disappearing down the alley just like his feline encounter had done. He would not have been surprised if he had; nothing the man could have possibly done would have surprised him.

Instead of following the cat, however, the man stayed where he was, staring at Trip as if he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was real. Then he opened his mouth.

"Where am I?"

His voice was quiet and a little hoarse, but Trip recognized its familiar accent immediately. He knew that he had heard this voice before, so often that he would have recognized it among many others.

"I don't know," he answered, and found that it was getting easier to speak past the ache in his throat. "I... can't remember."

The other man sat in silence for a moment, then he began to get to to his feet. As he came closer, Trip saw that the man - Malcolm - was wearing the same strange blue jumpsuit he had on, and that his, too, was stained with dirt and dust from lying on the pavement. His mind filed it away as another inexplicable part of what was happening here, another clue he failed to recognize. Malcolm's face was pale, and there was a sooty smear down his left cheek. Trip could see that he, too, was shivering.

"You're... you're Trip," he said and swallowed before he continued. "Trip Tucker."

Trip nodded, but said nothing. Yes, he was Trip Tucker, and at the same time he had no idea who he was. At the back of his mind, there was a feeling that something had happened, something bad, and that it concerned the two of them - this Malcolm with the smear down his cheek and himself, Trip Tucker. Two people that he knew only by name.

Malcolm entwined his hands as if to keep them from shaking. "I... don't remember anything," he said slowly, pronouncing the words in the precise way that Trip knew so well. "I don't know where we are, I don't even know who I am." He looked at Trip with something akin to panic in his eyes. "I have no idea who I am."

"Me... me either," Trip answered hoarsely. He could sympathize with the fear he saw on Malcolm's face, felt the same thing whenever he looked around and was faced with darkness and things he had never seen before. How could he be awake and aware and at the same time have no idea who or where he was? It seemed like a scenario right out of a nightmare, although Trip was sure that this was no dream. The feeling of the cold air on his skin was too real, Malcolm's voice too clear for this to be something that was only happening in his mind. No; he was here, and Malcolm was too, and there was - had to be - an explanation.

Malcolm exhaled, the condensing air forming a cloud in front of his face. "How... how can we not remember who we are? I... I know your name, and you know mine... I don't understand."

"That makes two of us," Trip said automatically, and once again, something like recognition flared up in him when the other man frowned. He had seen this frown before, and had a feeling that it had often followed a casual remark like the one he had just made.

Malcolm's eyebrows remained drawn together as he studied Trip's face. "I know you, " he said quietly. "I just don't know who you are."

"Yeah," Trip said. "Do you... do you remember anythin' else?"

Malcolm's frown intensified. "No," he said eventually. "I... I have a feeling that there's something I should remember, somewhere in my mind... but I can't." His mouth tightened. "It's as if there is a wall in my head."

Trip nodded. He knew exactly what Malcolm was talking about. "So..." He looked away, at the waste container, the lamp, the brickwalls. And realized that he didn't want to stay here. "What do we do now?"

Malcolm shrugged. His face was still tight, as if he were having a hard time concealing the things that were going on behind his forehead. He glanced at the puddle of vomit on the pavement a few meters away, then back at Trip's face.

"You all right?" he wanted to know.

It was Trip's turn to shrug. He wasn't sure why this man would be concerned with his well-being, although for some reason, the question hadn't really surprised him.

"Queasy stomach," he said as a way of explanation. "You feelin' okay?" The answer seemed to matter more than it should, given that he had only met this guy a few minutes ago.

Malcolm nodded. "I'm fine."

He didn't look fine, but Trip accepted the answer without asking any further. He had a feeling that Malcolm was not someone who liked to be pestered with questions.

"I was gonna go that way," he said instead, indicating the end of the alley. "You wanna come along?"

Malcolm hesitated briefly, the shrugged again. "Might as well," he said, burying his hands in his armpits. "Maybe we can find out where we are."

Trip nodded and began to walk, not looking at Malcolm who was trudging by his side. He was still feeling tired and sore, and a lot more scared than he had wanted to show in front of the other man. Again, he was surprised how much Malcolm's opinion seemed to matter to him. They must know each other really well... and Trip would have given his right arm to know how and why. There must be a reason, an explanation why they had both woken up in some unknown place, why they remembered nothing except for their names and the fact that they didn't belong here. He had a feeling that he wouldn't like the truth if it were presented to him, but that didn't change anything about the fact that it was the one thing he wanted to find out.

He glanced at Malcolm whose eyes were fixed on the pavement a few steps ahead of them. Though it was more for his own sake than anyone else's, he would have liked to say something encouraging. He came up with nothing. Malcolm didn't seem in any mood to talk, staring straight ahead with his hands still hidden in his armpits, and so Trip turned away again, letting out a small sigh that left a white cloud in front of his mouth.

Neither of them spoke as they continued their way down the street.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think of it so far!


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone! I appreciate every single one of them, and it's great to know that you're along for the ride!

Since it has come up, I thought I'd drop a quick note here that this is not an AU, even though the initial setting may seem so. Thank you for asking!

And now, on to Chapter 2...

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Chapter 2

As they stepped out onto the street adjoining the alley, Trip remained where he was for a moment, not sure whether he wanted to go on. Back in the alley, the unfamiliar surroundings had kindled a feeling that there was something wrong and out here, the feeling intensified in a way that alarmed him.

The street was deserted for the most part, and the only sign of life was the occasional lit window in the buildings that lined it on either side. What caught his eye, however, were the vehicles parked on the sides of the lane. They were wrong, or maybe not wrong, but... there were wheels where he would have expected to see something else, rounded shapes where he expected streamlined contours. For some reason, the vehicles confused him more than anything else had so far.

He glanced at Malcolm and saw that the other man was also staring at the... cars. That was what they were called; another piece of knowledge from the apparently inexhaustible source in his subconscious. Malcolm's expression was blank, but Trip sensed that he did not like what he was seeing. It was an unsettling experience, seeing things and feeling that they should look different, without knowing exactly what was wrong with them. Too close to insanity for his tastes.

"Come on," he said. He didn't want to look at those cars any longer. "We've gotta get goin'."

They didn't, of course; they had nowhere to go. Malcolm said nothing, and quietly turned away from the vehicles, following Trip as he walked down the sidewalk.

They passed several doors with small, fenced-in areas in front of them. Trip guessed that they were supposed to represent front yards, but hardly any of the people living here had gone to the trouble of decorating them. Mostly, they seemed to be used as a place to deposit trashcans and plastic bags. The house fronts matched their shabby appearance; even in the dim light, Trip could see that the plaster was coming off the wall and that several of the windows they passed had no panes and were sealed with pieces of carton or newspaper sheets.

Suddenly, one of the doors several dozen meters ahead opened and a man stepped outside - or rather, was pushed outside. The person who had pushed him screamed a few unintelligible swears at him, then slammed the door shut again. For a few seconds, the man stood swaying in his front yard, then turned around and tottered towards the gate.

"Evenin'," he said to them, leaning heavily against the fence. "Bitch threw me out," he added as a way of explanation. "Fuckin' bitch. Ain't gonna let me back inside. Never does."

Trip only nodded and quickened his pace. He didn't want to talk to the man, and could see that Malcolm didn't either.

"You got somethin' to drink?" the man continued, his bleary eyes taking on a hopeful expression. "Bitch ain't gonna give me nuthin'. Said I'm fucked up enough."

"We haven't got anything," Malcolm said. The man swayed again, then suddenly he started laughing.

"Haven't got anything," he repeated in a poor imitation of Malcolm's accent. "Haven't got anything!"

Trip saw the way Malcolm's lips tightened at the man's drunken mocking, and took the other man's arm.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go."

"Fuckin' Brit!" the man shouted after them, still guffawing. "Go back to Limey Land! Haven't got anything! Fuck off, will ya!"

"What an idiot," Trip said. The lines around Malcolm's mouth softened a little, and Trip was pleased to see it. Suddenly he realized that there was something else he knew about Malcolm, something he had known all along. Malcolm was from England and he spoke with a British accent. And it seemed that wherever they were, it was not Malcolm's home country.

In the meantime, it had started to drizzle, and combined with the cold wind, the raindrops began to feel icy on Trip's face. Vaguely, he remembered another place, warm and sunny, where the temperatures wouldn't drop even in the cold season. It was a place he knew... a good place. Maybe his home.

"I'm American," he said quietly. "But I'm not from here... at least I don't think I am."

Malcolm sighed. "This is crazy. How can I know I'm from England but at the same time not remember what it looks like?"

Trip shook his head. He had no answer to give.

"At least we're together in this," he said, so quietly that he wasn't sure whether Malcolm had caught the words.

"Yeah," Malcolm said. "At least that way I know I'm not crazy. Or maybe I am crazy, and you're part of my hallucinations. Although why my subconscious would choose America of all places I don't know."

Trip chuckled, and understood that this was something Malcolm would do; fire a round of sarcasm when you expected it the least.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd say we should find somewhere to spend the night," he said, wrapping his arms around himself when another gust of wind blew the rain in his face. "Gettin' a little chilly out here."

Malcolm nodded. "Maybe tomorrow we can try to find out where we are and what's going on here."

Trip nodded his agreement. He wasn't so much interested in _where _as in _why_... why had they woken up in a place neither of them had seen before? Why were there blurred images in his mind that he could not seem to identify, but which were familiar to him all the same? Why could he not _remember_?

"These clothes," Malcolm said suddenly. "They look like uniforms, don't you think?"

In the faint light of the streetlamps, Trip took a closer look at the blue jumpsuit he was wearing. There were a lot of zippers on its sleeves and front, and a thin red trim lining the shoulder parts. He had a feeling he was wearing some sort of shirt underneath, although it did little good in barring out the cold wind. Suddenly he noticed something on Malcolm's arm and took the other man's wrist.

"Wait a minute."

Malcolm stopped, his eyebrows raised in a mute inquiry. Trip pointed at the... picture on Malcolm's left upper arm.

"Look at that."

They both looked at the round image printed on the sleeve of the jumpsuit. It was a picture of some sort of spacecraft in front of a dark sky, highlighted on its left side as if to depict a reflection of starlight. The small image was framed by a circle with a word written in black letters on the white background.

"Enterprise," Trip read aloud. The word sounded almost cruelly familiar, as if it were something he should know like his own name. "Do you think it's some sort of name?"

Malcolm regarded the matching picture on Trip's overall. "I don't know," he said slowly. "Maybe it's some sort of organization. " He let out an angry sigh. "I _know_ the word," he said. "I know it's supposed to mean something. I just don't know what."

Trip nodded. "Yeah. I..." He trailed off, not sure how to put his feelings into words. "Maybe something... happened to us. Some sort of accident. Maybe that's why we can't remember who we are, or why we're here."

"Maybe," Malcolm answered softly. It was all he said, but Trip could see that the idea scared him.

"Let's try and find someplace to spend the night," he said after a short, awkward pause. "It's gettin' really cold."

Malcolm nodded. "Enterprise," he said then, slowly, almost as if he expected the word to trigger something in his mind. It obviously didn't work, as a second later he shook his head and sighed. "What a load of bollocks."

For some reason, this made Trip laugh. He chuckled, earning a "are-you-feeling-quite-all-right" look from Malcolm.

"What?" he wanted to know when Trip only shook his head. "What's so funny?"

"Nothin'," Trip said. Hearing someone swear in a distinguished accent like Malcolm's _was _funny, but it was not why he had laughed. Maybe it was because "bollocks" seemed to describe their situation so aptly.

"I guess you would say bullshit." Malcolm deliberately drawled the words. "Whatta load o' bullsheet."

Trip grinned. "Gotta work on that accent, Brit."

As he had expected, Malcolm smirked. "I try not to."

The awkwardness of before had passed, and Trip smiled a little as they continued walking down the street. This Malcolm guy was better company than he would have thought at first.

The rain was still blowing their way, and when they had reached the end of the block, the water was beginning to seep through Trip's shirt. Burying his hands in his armpits helped only a little, and he felt himself beginning to shiver. Malcolm soldiered on next to him, head bowed and arms wrapped tightly around his upper body, but Trip could see that he, too, was miserably cold. He considered suggesting that they spend the night in a doorway, but then dismissed the idea. If all the inhabitants of this place were as helpful as the drunken man and his wife, they'd get kicked out as soon as they had sat down. The last thing they needed was to get in trouble with the locals.

They walked in silence for a while, crossing several intersecting streets which looked no different than the one they were following; dimly lit, empty, and littered with trash. Once or twice people passed them by, one woman hurrying to the other side of the street as soon as she caught sight of them. Trip supposed that he would have done the same in her place; if the guy who had told Malcolm to go back to Limey Land was representative of the men who lived around here, she was being smart avoiding them. After the third or fourth intersection, they passed a brightly lit building with large windows, apparently some sort of store. It seemed to be open, but no one wanted to shop at this time of the night; the only sign of life were two stray dogs next to the trash receptacles. Through the shop window, Trip could see rows of shelves laden with bread and canned fruit, and a stall with vegetables in wooden boxes. His stomach began to ache dully at the idea of (_mashed potatoes? catfish?_) food, and he quickly turned his eyes away. They had no money; he and Malcolm had thoroughly checked the pockets of their strange clothing for anything they might be able to use, but there had been nothing. How they would get their next meal, he did not know, but right now there was no use in worrying about it. If they were lucky, the situation would resolve itself before they seriously needed to start thinking about food.

"Look," Malcolm said, pointing at something on the other side of the street. Trip followed his eyes and saw a large warehouse right across the street, an ugly brick front with a broken window at the very top. It was obvious that the building was no longer in use; its roof was leaking and the pavement in front of the entrance littered with empty boxes and crates.

Malcolm sighed. "I guess this is as good as it gets."

Trip nodded. During the last ten minutes or so, the drizzle had slowly turned into a steady rain, and even though the warehouse didn't look very trustworthy, it was better than staying out here. And in there he was fairly sure there would be no one trying to kick them out again.

They crossed the street, and, at Trip's suggestion, picked up a few empty carton boxes to use as bedding. The metal entrance door wasn't locked, and opened with a creak when Malcolm carefully pushed down the handle.

The room - or rather hall - inside was large, dark, and almost as cold as the air outside. Wooden crates were stacked against the wall in one corner, and in another corner someone had put up a construction of crates and blankets that reminded Trip remotely of a tent. Inside the tent, there was a glow as if of candlelight. Malcolm had also noticed the light and took a quick, quiet step forward, as if to shield Trip with his body should the inhabitant of the tent decide to attack them. Trip frowned; he was perfectly capable of defending himself, and didn't like the idea that Malcolm would think otherwise. He said nothing, though, and a moment later the blanket covering the entrance of the tent moved, taking his mind off the subject. A face peered through the gap between the blankets, dimly lit by the candle inside the makeshift dwelling. Trip saw bleak, baggy eyes, a red nose, and a mouth hardened by cold weather and illness. The black eyebrows drew together, and then the owner of the tent crawled outside, holding something in his hand that looked like a club. Trip tensed, but then he saw that the "club" was only a bottle from which the man had been drinking. He seemed to have downed the greater part of the bottle's contents, swaying and stumbling as he straightened up.

"Who're you?" he asked in a hoarse, bleary voice. "Get the fuck outta here."

"It's raining," Trip said. The man was still frowning, and Trip added, "We're not lookin' for trouble. We just need a place to spend the night."

"You get the fuck outta here." The man raised the bottle as if in a weird salute. "My place. I live here. An' you get the fuck out."

"Well, you'll hardly need the whole place to yourself." Malcolm crossed his arms in front of his chest. "As my friend said, we're not looking for trouble. And we're not leaving, either."

Trip turned his head a little at the word "friend"; it had come perfectly naturally, as if it were something Malcolm didn't even have to think about. And there _was_ no need to think about it, Trip realized. He knew that he and Malcolm were friends just like he had known that he was called Charles Tucker.

The man in front of the tent swayed again. "You're not fuckin' stealin' my house," he said, and Trip noticed an underlying tone of fear in his voice. "It's my fuckin' house. You're not takin' it."

"We don't want your house. We'll sleep somewhere over there." Trip waved at the stacked crates. "Don't worry."

The man stared at him for a second, the bottle trembling in his hand. Then he turned away and crawled back into his "house", muttering something that sounded very much like "fuckin' bastards", and closed the door curtain with a hard jerk. Inside, they could hear him take a noisy slurp from his bottle.

Trip nodded at Malcolm; the guy wasn't going to give them any more trouble. They went over to the corner where the crates were stacked, and found that someone must have used it for a sleeping place not too long ago, and had left behind several beer bottles, newspaper sheets and a box of matches.

Malcolm and he lifted two of the wooden crates off the stack and arranged them so that they shielded the corner from the rest of the room. The space inside was barely wide enough for two people to stretch out side by side, but at least they would be warm that way.

Malcolm picked up the box of matches their predecessor had left. "Maybe we could try and make a fire," he said. Trip glanced around. Except for the carton boxes and the newspaper sheets they intended to use as bedding there was nothing combustible to hand. Then he remembered the broken crate he had noticed earlier on, and got up.

"Be right back."

Five minutes later, he returned with several wooden boards he had broken into handy-size pieces, and was secretly pleased when Malcolm nodded appreciatively. As Trip began to arrange the wooden splinters on the floor, he had the distinct feeling that this was something he had done before... something he had practized. An image flickered before his mental eye - a forest, people carrying "survival gear"... _field training_.

The image made no sense and he shook it off, returning his attention to their fire. Malcolm had rolled up one of the newspaper sheets and wedged it between his knees so that he could use both hands to light one of the matches. Soon the paper cylinder was burning, and Malcolm carefully held it against one of the wooden pieces until a thin trail of smoke rose into the air. The crate didn't burn well, producing mostly smoke and only a few tiny flames, but it was enough to warm up their hands, which had grown stiff and red with cold.

Across the smoking pile of splinters, Malcolm smiled at him, and Trip answered with a grin of his own. They had found a place to stay, got a fire going - all in all they could be doing a lot worse.

"Pity we don't have any sausages on sticks," Malcolm said, rubbing his hands together to maximize the warmth.

"Or marshmellows," Trip added. At the mention of food, his stomach rumbled again, and he shifted on the stony floor to get more comfortable. "Know any songs to sing round the campfire?"

Malcolm chuckled. "Can't say I do."

"Well, there's always "Bursts of Starlight"." Trip grinned.

"Oh please." Malcolm rolled his eyes. "If that isn't one of the worst songs ever made..."

Their eyes met, and Malcolm's grin began to fade at the same time as Trip's.

"_'Bursts of starlight on the Vulcan sky, remind me of the years that passed us by'_," they said both at the same time; quietly, as if they were sharing a terrible secret instead of quoting a line from a kitschy love song.

"What the hell is a "Vulcan sky"?" Malcolm asked softly.

Trip shook his head. "I have no idea."

The lyrics had sprung from the same, inaccessible place in his mind as the dreamlike images he would see; a place that refused to yield any more than the occasional snippet of a life Trip could no longer remember.

Malcolm began to rip apart the newspaper he had used to kindle the fire, throwing the scraps into the flames.

"It's driving me bloody nuts." He raised his head to look at Trip. "It's there, all of it, right there in my head. I can feel it. I just can't remember." His hands closed around the remains of the paper roll, crushing it.

"I know what you mean," Trip said quietly. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "Do you think someone did this to us? Like we were brainwashed or somethin'?"

Malcolm was still staring into the flames. "I don't know," he said. "I guess so."

Trip wanted to say something, come up with a suggestion how they could try and find out more about what had happened, but that was the point - there was nothing they could possibly do. With no idea of what they had lost, there was no way to regain it.

"Maybe..." He trailed off, thinking. "Maybe this Enterprise business has got something to do with it. I mean, there's gotta be a reason why we're both wearin' this uniform, or whatever it is."

Malcolm nodded thoughtfully. "If so, then they did a thorough job erasing my memory. I don't have the slightest idea who or what "Enterprise" is."

Trip glanced at the image on his arm. A spacecraft... did Earth have spaceships? He had a vague idea that they did, but that didn't explain why he and Malcolm had woken up in a dark backstreet in an unknown city. He couldn't imagine how a spaceship came into all of this.

"Well," Malcolm said, returning Trip's attention to the present, "I think I'm going to turn in for the night, if you don't mind."

Trip shook his head and picked up one of the unused splinters to beat out the flames. He would have liked to keep the fire going, but that would have meant one of them having to stay awake to put more wood on.

"Wait a minute," Malcolm said suddenly. At his strange tone, Trip looked up, the splinter forgotten in his hand.

"What?"

Malcolm had begun to spread the newspapers on the floor, but had stopped as soon as he had opened what seemed to be the front cover. Trip could make out a headline in bold capital letters: "Energy Crisis Reaches New Level".

Laying the splinter aside, Trip left his place next to the fire and crouched down next to Malcolm to take a closer look at what was written on the page. For the most part, the headlines announced gloom and doom; poverty rates climbing to new heights, gang fights terrorizing the streets, schools closing down all over the state. What caught his attention, however, was what was printed at the very top of the page... and for the life of him he could not have said why it felt so utterly, inexplicably wrong.

"_The New York Times_," the heading said, and below: "_Wednesday,_ _January 12, 2048_".

TBC...

Part of the mystery revealed... or not? Please leave a review and tell me what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for your reviews, I love reading them!

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Chapter 3

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing left." The lady in the white apron turned to the faucet to wash her hands. "We've had about two hundred people in here this morning, and we only get enough supplies to feed a hundred and fifty every day. You'll have to come back tomorrow, boys."

Malcolm nodded curtly, as if he had expected as much. Trip answered the lady's sympathetic smile, and tried to hide his disappointment. It was what they had heard for the last four days - _"Sorry, there's nothing left, try again tomorrow."_. People started lining up in front of the soup kitchens as early as 5 am, and at 7 am the kitchen staff came outside to call children, old people and pregnant women to the front of the line. When it was the men's turn, there were hardly ever more than a few dozen bowls of soup left, and it was almost impossible to scrounge one of those without pushing other people to the back. So far, Malcolm and Trip had refused to do so, and so a compassionate smile was all they ever got.

"That's okay," Trip said over the groans coming from the people standing in line behind them. Most of them had been waiting for hours in the hope of getting at least one of the dry pieces of toast the kitchen staff gave out with the soup. "Ma'am, do you need someone to clean the kitchen? My friend here and I, we're lookin' for work, even if it's only a few hours..."

She shook her head before he had even finished his sentence. "Sorry, but no. I don't suppose you have a permanent residence?"

Mutely, Trip shook his head. The old warehouse where they had been spending their nights could not be called a residence, even if Tom, their neighbor, took great pride in the fact that he owned a "house" to call his own.

"Then we can't allow you to work here," she said. "Have you tried one of the shelters?"

Trip nodded. "They can't take anyone in at the moment."

The lady sighed, as if she had expected no different. "I'm sorry, guys," she said. "I'm afraid there's not much I can do for you."

"That's all right," Malcolm said. "Thanks for your trouble."

His politeness - and probably his accent - earned him a surprised look and a smile. "You're welcome," the lady said. "Good luck."

They nodded at her and left, trudging past the rows of tables where people sat gobbling down soup and toast. Most of them were children or teenagers with pale, pinched faces and, more often than not, a plastic bag containing all their belongings sitting on the bench next to them.

At the shelter, they had been told that there were more than 50 000 homeless people living on the streets of the city, and that at least 10 000 of them were children under 13.

"We take the under tens first," the manager of the shelter had said. "Then the teenagers, especially teenage moms, the women and then the men. I'm afraid you'll have to try someplace else, guys."

They had, but none of the homeless shelters seemed to have room for two young men who had no ID or proof of qualification. It was frustrating; not so much because Trip minded sleeping in the warehouse, even though the cold from the stone floor would creep into their bones at night, leaving them sore and stiff every morning. The problem, however, was that every place where they asked for work, the first thing the management wanted to see was their proof of residence, or at least a form stating that they had found a temporary home in one of the shelters. Without it, there wasn't a chance that they would be allowed even to clean the toilets. Malcolm and he had debated faking the form, but had decided that it was too risky in case they got caught. Tom, who had come out of his shell a little after he had finally believed that they had no intention of stealing his "house", had tried to be helpful, suggesting that they use a trick to get at least one of them into the shelter.

"You gotta beat him up a little," he had said to Trip, "then chase him to the door of the shelter, yelling that you're gonna kill him if he ever cheats on you again." He had smiled at Malcolm. "Try to cry a little and the lady at the Salvation's gonna take you in. She's got a soft spot for little guys who get beat up by their boyfriends."

Malcolm, who hadn't really liked the "little guy", had replied rather frostily that he wasn't all that good at playing the battered boyfriend part, and Trip hadn't been too enthusiastic either. If the shelter staff called the police, he would have a hell of a time explaining that it was all a ruse in order to get Malcolm into the shelter - which, even if they believed it, the police wouldn't exactly approve of, either. Tom had only shrugged when they had told him about their objections.

"It's your business, " he had said. "But one thing I can tell you for sure, and that is that you ain't gonna see one of those shelters from the inside if you walk up to their door and ask nicely. It ain't gonna happen."

It turned out that he was right; in four days they hadn't found one shelter that was willing even to put them on the waiting list. And since no shelter meant no part-time jobs, all they could really do was try to survive on a day-by-day basis, getting up every morning with a hollow ache in their stomachs and little hope of feeling any better when the day was over. Trip guessed that they hadn't lived like that all their lives; in the days since they had woken up in this place, they had both visibly lost weight, and their unwashed overalls no longer fitted snugly, but were becoming rather loose around the waist and legs.

"We could try the pizza place a few blocks down," Malcolm said as they walked past graffitied walls and rows of the strange vehicles that seemed to be everywhere.

Trip only nodded, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach. The smell of the soup had intensified his hunger, and he had to force himself not to think of the chunks of meat and potatoes he had seen on the other people's plates. It was only fair that the kids came first; he himself would have made the same decision, had he been part of the kitchen management. It was how things were supposed to work, even if his rumbling stomach wasn't convinced.

As they entered the restaurant's dirty backyard, a smell of grease and old tomato sauce announced that the two trash containers next to the backdoor hadn't been emptied yet. Keeping an eye on the door to make sure no one came out, Trip and Malcolm began to rummage through the containers' contents, after chasing away a stray cat that seemed to have had similar plans. Tail twitching angrily, it sat down a few meters away and watched as they pulled out greasy boxes and paper plates to check if there was anything left they could eat. After they had scraped off the worst dirt, they stacked the half-eaten pizza slices in a paper box, stuffing the occasional bite in their mouths to calm the worst hunger. Malcolm had just added a greasy box half-full of spaghetti when the kitchen door opened and an elderly man with a trashcan came out. His eyes widened when he saw them, and he retreated hastily enough to lose the trashcan whose contents spilled all over the doorstep.

"Get out of here," they could hear him yelling from behind the door he had slammed shut. "Get off my property or I'll call the police!"

Quickly, they gathered up their booty and retreated, their hands full of pizza boxes and half-empty soda cups. Behind them, the cat meowed triumphantly as it jumped back onto the container, and the man, now back outside, threw a bottle that shattered on the pavement.

"Goddamn bums, get the fuck outta here!"

They ran until they were out of hearing range, then leaned against a wall to catch their breath. Trip's head was throbbing, and he had to close his eyes, waiting for the woozy feeling to subside. With little or no food to sustain it, his body wasn't up to much exertion.

Malcolm had slid down the wall and was sitting on his heels, coughing harshly. The pizza boxes lay forgotten on the pavement beside him as he pressed a hand against his chest, hacking and hawing. Trip watched him worriedly. Two days ago as they had rummaged through the trash, someone had emptied a bucket of cold water over their heads, too quickly for them to jump aside. Malcolm had caught the brunt of it, and the icy wind that had blown on their way back hadn't helped. He had started to sneeze, then the cough had developed, and by now there was no denying that Malcolm was ill. He didn't complain, however, and Trip pretended not to lie awake at night and listen to Malcolm's suppressed coughs. He wasn't going to say anything when the other man so obviously wanted to ignore the problem.

After a while, the coughing stopped. Malcolm leaned against the wall, eyes closed and hand still resting on his chest. His breathing came harshly and he shivered, small tremors running through his body as he tried to regain his breath.

"Malcolm?" Trip asked. The other man's silence was beginning to worry him. "You okay?"

Malcolm opened his eyes. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, right." Trip held out a hand to help Malcolm to his feet. Malcolm chose to ignore his sarcasm and gave no answer, picking up the pizza boxes instead.

"Let's go back," he said. "I'm starving."

Trip followed him down the street, slightly annoyed at Malcolm's insistence on claiming that he was perfectly all right. For some reason, it didn't surprise him that Malcolm wouldn't admit to being sick; it seemed typical of the man to do so. There were a lot of things Trip recognized about his companion; Malcolm's little smirk when something went wrong (which happened a lot these days), his quiet way of talking, his sarcastic remarks. It was an uncanny feeling, discovering all those familiar traits about a person he had met only four days ago, and Trip often wondered what their life had been like, before. It seemed as if they hadn't had one; no one here knew an organisation called "Enterprise", and by now Trip was beginning to doubt that such a thing existed at all. It wasn't a comforting thought, although he didn't know why the idea should worry him; as far as he knew, "Enterprise" was only a word stitched onto the sleeve of his grimy overall.

When they arrived at the warehouse, Tom was gone, probably visiting his girlfriend who lived on the other side of the town in one of the shelters. Tom was forever trying to convince her to move in with him, and didn't seem to understand why she would prefer the dorm in the shelter to his "house". He had even announced that he was going to kick them out, should Ashley decide to come and live with him.

"You're not gonna steal her away from me," he had said. Malcolm had responded that he might want to consider working on his personality problem, after which Tom had disappeared into his house to sulk. So far, however, Ashley seemed to have no intentions of leaving the shelter, and Trip hoped that she wasn't going to change her mind. They didn't need any more trouble than they already had.

After a few minutes, they had gotten a fire going inside their makeshift dwelling and spread the pizza on a sheet of newspaper, holding the slices over the flames before they ate them (as Malcolm said, roasting them might kill the taste, if not the germs). Trip's stomach protested a little against the onslaught of grease and artificial flavor, but he didn't really care. The pizza wasn't good, but it was edible, and he welcomed anything that would alleviate the empty feeling in his guts. In the last few days, Trip had discovered that hunger could hurt worse than frostbite, which was painful enough in itself when left untreated. The hunger was worse, however; it was like a constant ache that was getting harder and harder to ignore as the hours went by. He had seen grown men cry when they were sent away from the soup kitchens empty-handed, and after having experienced the feeling himself, he could sympathize. Going hungry for a longer period of time was a little like being killed bit by bit from the inside; it could drive a man insane.

They didn't talk as they finished the pizza slices, wiping their hands on their overall legs when they were done. Outside, they could hear the morning traffic filling the streets, a constant hum with the occasional honking of a horn. Trip leaned back against the brick wall and closed his eyes, thinking that the traffic sounded wrong. It was too loud, and there shouldn't be any screeching brakes or revving engines. Why that would be so, he did not know. All he knew was that he never lost the feeling that there was something out of order... something he could never quite put his finger on.

_Maybe I'm just crazy_. He smiled a little at the thought. It hardly made a difference whether he was in his right mind or not; Malcolm and he seemed to have sunk as low as you could get, and if his marbles were starting to roll away, well, then it was fine with him. Maybe it was just as well that he didn't recall his former life; remembering might make their current situation even harder to bear.

Malcolm coughed, and Trip opened his eyes again. The other man had wrapped himself in one of the old blankets, pressing a fist against his mouth as he strained to clear his airway. His face was flushed, with drops of sweat gleaming on his forehead.

Trip decided that he no longer cared whether Malcolm wanted his condition acknowledged or not, and laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Malcolm," he said. "Why don't you lie down, at least for a while."

Malcolm opened his eyes and tried to glare at him, but there seemed to be little of his bristly spirit left. A shiver ran though him and he pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders. Trip tightened his grip. "Malcolm..."

"Oh bloody hell." Malcolm shrugged his hand off and crawled over to his bed of newspaper sheets and old cartons. The blanket still wrapped around him like a cocoon, he lay down on his side and closed his eyes again. His breathing was harsh, as if he were fighting a block in his chest every time he inhaled.

Trip watched him as he fell asleep, which didn't take long despite Malcolm's initial reluctance to lie down. He could feel his own thoughts beginning to drift, and allowed his eyes to droop.

_I ought to take him to a doctor_, he thought, and then, out of the blue: _Too bad Phlox isn't here._

Trip tried as hard he could, but he couldn't for the life of him think of who Phlox was, or why he or she would know how to help Malcolm. The name was nothing more than a random sound, and after a while, Trip gave up trying to remember. His eyes closed, and soon he was fast asleep, dreaming of a strange place with narrow beds, white curtains and a small, screeching being that lived in a cage. When he woke up again, the dream was gone, and with it the memories of a life that no longer belonged to him.

TBC...

Please hit the button and let me know what you think :)!


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to everyone who's reading this!

volley: It's true, Malcolm does get sick in almost every story ;)...

Begoogled: Thank you! I think I can say without giving away too much that we will meet the rest of the crew, but it is going to take a while yet...

lunaz: Glad you're enjoying the story, and things are going to get worse for the boys yet...

Thanks for reviewing!

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Chapter 4

Trip slipped his blue undershirt over his head, grimacing at the smell that assaulted his nostrils. He laid the shirt aside and looked over at Malcolm, who was standing in front of the sinks. His overall was lowered to his bare waist and he had a pile of paper towels next to him, which he was using to clean his face, arms and neck. The water in his sink was rapidly turning gray.

Trip pulled a handful of towels out of the dispenser, then walked over to the sinks to tend to his own, long overdue ablutions. The basin next to Malcolm's was already filled with water, with blobs of pinkish liquid soap floating on the surface.

"Thanks," he said to Malcolm who only nodded, intent on scrubbing his armpits. Out of the corner of his eye, Trip noticed that every single one of Malcolm's ribs was visible under the skin, outlined by a pattern of dirt. Not that he himself looked any better; after more than two weeks without access to bathroom facilities, he was surprised people weren't dropping left, right and center when he entered a room. Tom and Malcolm didn't mind, of course; Tom had no business accusing anyone of emitting unpleasant body odors, and Malcolm couldn't smell anyway with his nose clogged like a stopped-up drainpipe.

Trip folded a bunch of paper towels and soaked them in the soapy water, then began wiping down his arms. Tiny gray droplets tickled across his skin, and he grimaced. As long as he didn't have to face it, the dirt had simply become part of his body, like his grimy clothes or the cold sores. Now, he suddenly couldn't wait to be clean again.

He proceeded to wash his face and neck. Next to him, Malcolm had bent down over the sink and was using both hands to massage pink soap into his hair. Trip wasn't sure if it was a good idea for Malcolm to wash his hair when he had a fever and was faced with the prospect of returning into a cold and windy afternoon, but he said nothing. Malcolm wouldn't be deterred anyway; it had been his idea to sneak into the public library to use their bathroom, and he seemed determined to make the most of it.

After he had rinsed his hair under the faucet, Malcolm straightened up again and shook his head. Small drops of water sprinkled on the mirror, and Trip grinned. With his hair wet and sticking up like that, Malcolm reminded him of a cat coming in out of the rain, soaked and disgruntled.

"What's so f... funny?" Malcolm cleared his throat, but it didn't help much; his vocal chords had taken too much abuse and rendered his voice almost non-existent.

Trip shook his head. "Nothin'." Telling Malcolm that he looked like a wet kitten didn't seem like a good idea.

Malcolm shrugged and used another towel to rub over the wet strands. "Do you have the razor?"

Trip nodded and opened the zipper on his chest pocket, getting out a small, self-made paper envelope. Inside was the one razor blade Tom had agreed to give them, in exchange for a half-filled bottle of cheap wine Trip had found in the trash. Tom could be a reliable source of useful things, if one had enough booze to pay him.

Trip took out the blade and handed it to Malcolm, who had already pasted a layer of soap onto his stubbly cheeks. Carefully, he pulled the razor over his skin, transferring the stubbles and pinkish foam into the sink after each scrape.

Trip turned back to his own sink and began to wash his hair. The soap itched and wouldn't quite rinse out as he held his head under the faucet, but it seemed to take care of the worst dirt. When he straightened up again, the water running down the drain was almost clear.

In the meantime, Malcolm had finished shaving and was wiping the last traces of soap off his face. Trip lathered his own chin and cheeks and began removing the blond stubble, secretly relieved with every blob of foam that went down the drain. He couldn't remember having had a beard before - just as he couldn't remember _not_ having one - but he felt decidedly better with the hair on his face gone.

"I guess we should c... clean up," Malcolm said after a while. Trip had finished scraping the last stubble off his face, grabbed a paper towel and began to clean the foam off his chin.

"Just a sec," he said. "I've gotta-"

He was cut off when the door banged against the wall. A fat man in a janitor's overall was standing on the doorstep, his large red face growing even redder as he surveyed the room. Trip was the first one to speak.

"Look-" he began, but the man had no intention of letting him finish.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he yelled. "What the fuck do you think this is, your fuckin' bathroom?"

"Well, it _is _a bathroom," Trip said, and regretted it immediately when the man took a step towards him, positively spitting with fury.

"I can get you arrested for this! Goddamn hobos, coming in here and messing up the place, who do you think you are!"

"Listen..." Malcolm cleared his throat as his voice threatened to fail. "We'll c...clean it up again..."

"And he's sick, too!" Accusingly, the man pointed at Malcolm. "Do you think people wanna catch all sorts of things in here after you've been spreading your germs all over the place?"

"Look, there's no need to freak out, okay?" Trip noticed that he had raised his voice, and made a conscious effort to continue in a calmer tone. "We said we're gonna clean it up, so you won't have to worry about any germs. Just give us a few minutes and-"

"You shut up and get outta here, now! Or I'm calling the police! Take your garbage and get out!"

He pointed at the clothes they had left on the floor. Trip, deciding that there was no use talking to the man, began to pick up their things.

"Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on."

"Shut it!" The janitor, who had started to inspect the sinks as if looking for poisonous germs, turned around again. "And get a move on! Get out!"

They threw their clothes back on and left, Malcolm wrapping his scarf around his neck as they crossed the foyer and stepped back onto the street. Trip pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. After days of shivering in their thin overalls, they had managed to steal two jackets and a scarf from an old clothes bag, which Malcolm said was no real theft since the clothes were for homeless people, anyway. Trip didn't really care, as long as he wasn't constantly aching with cold anymore.

The wind tugged at his damp hair, and he bowed his head as they slowly made their way down the street. He would probably catch a cough along with his running nose, but he was still lucky compared to Malcolm, whose face was flushed and gleaming with sweat. Trip slowed down, careful so the other man wouldn't notice. Malcolm hated it when Trip tried to "mother" him, and would deliberately pick up his pace if he noticed that Trip was waiting for him to catch up. Trip sighed inwardly at the thought.

They trudged along the darkening street, heads down and hands buried in their pockets. Trip wasn't sure where they were going; they couldn't return to the warehouse tonight, Tom had made sure of that.

"It's Ashley's birthday, and I'll be damned if I let you boys stay here and ruin our evening," he had said, ignoring Trip's angry protests that Malcolm was sick and needed a place to spend the night. "I don't care. You come back here tonight and I'll burn all your stuff when you're gone the next day. I'll do it."

Knowing that Tom would follow through on his threat, they had seen no other choice but to give in. Now, with no idea where they would sleep tonight, Trip wished that he had put up more of an argument. Maybe they should go back now, and to hell with Tom and his idea of a romantic evening. They weren't going to freeze out here just because Ashley and Tom wanted no spectators at their little party.

Malcolm went into a coughing fit, and Trip caught him by the shoulder as he doubled over. The coughs racked Malcolm's thin form, sounding as if they were coming from deep inside his lungs. Trip bit down on his lip and held on until the coughing stopped. Malcolm stayed like he was for a moment, bent down with his arms wrapped around his middle. Trip could feel him shivering under his hands.

When he had regained his breath, Malcolm whispered something barely intelligible. Trip sighed as he caught the words.

"Oh yes, bloody hell, all right. Mal, listen, we've gotta get you inside. You can't stay out here."

"And what... do you suggest?" Awkwardly, Malcolm straightened up again and raised his head. "I assume you haven't got us rooms booked at the Hilton?"

"Wish I had." Trip looked around until his eyes fell on a park bench a few meters away. "Maybe you could sit down over there for a few minutes, and I could go and see if I can find us a place to stay."

Malcolm frowned at him. "Are you planning to break into a car, or why don't you want any company?"

Trip shook his head. "Remember those houses near the park?"

Malcolm nodded. Close to the park was one of the few parts of the district that wasn't crammed with huge tenement blocks; "uptown", as Tom called it. They had been there before to ask if anyone needed their car washed or garage cleaned, only to be chased away by a policeman patrolling the streets.

"Maybe there's a gardenshed where we could stay the night," Trip said. "No one would notice, and we'd be gone in the mornin'."

Malcolm considered, then nodded. "I'll come with you."

"Malcolm..."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not staying here while you get yourself arrested for trespassing. I'm coming with you."

His tone made it clear that the discussion was closed. Trip knew that there was no use in arguing with Malcolm, and decided not to waste his breath.

"Alright. But don't blame me when we get caught because you sneezed."

Malcolm glared at him and Trip grinned. Baiting the Englishman was fun, even when he was cold, sore and hungry. He had a feeling that they had been doing this for a long time, long enough for it to feel familiar even though they couldn't remember their former lives.

Malcolm coughed again, and Trip's grin faded.

"C'mon," he said, resting a hand on Malcolm's arm. "Let's get you inside."

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The streets uptown were deserted and the houses dark. The only light came from the streetlamps that lined the curb, illuminating well-trimmed front lawns and the occasional abandoned tricycle on the driveway. The trashcans, instead of filling the streets with their penetrating smell, were neatly tucked away behind garden gates and picket fences.

They walked past a small supermarket and a drugstore (Trip hated the thought that there were at least five dozen different cough medicines lined on the shelves inside), then turned into a smaller street leading towards one of the multi-faith centers that seemed to be everywhere. There were fewer streetlamps here, and the houses didn't look quite as tidy as the ones in the main street; some of them even bore a vague resemblance to the concrete boxes back downtown.

Staying close to walls and hedges, they ventured into several backyards to see if there was a gardenshed, one of them always keeping an eye on the street to see if there was anyone coming their way. The only shed they discovered, however, was locked, the rusty door handle creaking noisily when Trip pushed it down.

"Dammit!"

"Shhh!" Malcolm frowned at him and threw a look over his shoulder as if he expected someone to come around the corner of the house any second. "You'll-"

He broke off, and for a panicky second, Trip believed that Malcolm had actually seen someone. Then he realized what Malcolm was looking at - and began to smile. The house had several windows directly above ground level that lead into the basement of the building. One of them, a square just wide enough for a man to climb through, was a crack open.

Malcolm motioned at him to follow. Trip had a distinct feeling that this was something where Malcolm was in charge, just like Trip was the one who had figured out how to tinker Tom's old radio back to life. Although the fever and illness slowed him down, Malcolm seemed to know exactly how to move so no one would notice his presence in the shadows. Trip did his best to stay close to him, half expecting the lights to go on inside the house any moment. Nothing happened, however, the only sound being that of his own breathing loud in his ears.

Malcolm crouched down in front of the window. Inside, they could see the dim outlines of cupboards, chairs and something in the corner that looked like a large, bulky container.

Trip reached for the handle in the middle of the window frame. The creaking handle of the gardenshed still vividly in mind, he gave it a cautious pull. It opened without a sound, as did the other casement. Carefully, Trip stuck his head inside

"How far to the floor?" Malcolm wanted to know in a hoarse whisper.

"Maybe two meters." Trip squinted as he tried to make out the distance in the dark. "Shouldn't be a problem."

_For me, at least_, he added in his mind. Malcolm was stiff and sore from the fever, and Trip guessed that he was running on pure adrenaline, if the shaking of his hands was any indication.

Not bothering with an argument, he began to climb inside first, turning around so he could hold onto the window frame. He lowered himself inside until he was hanging from his fingertips, then let go. His feet had almost been touching the ground, and he landed without any noise on the cold stone floor. Outside, Malcolm made as if to follow him, but Trip gestured for him to wait. He walked over to the corner where he had seen the chairs and carried one of them over to the window, placing it so that Malcolm could use it as a stepladder.

Trip ignored the Englishman's scowl and waved at him to get a move on. "Gettin' chilly in here."

Still frowning, Malcolm began to climb inside. Trip pursed his lips when he saw how awkwardly Malcolm was moving, as if every movement were causing him a great deal of pain. He had almost made it when suddenly one of his legs gave way. Malcolm swayed and would have fallen, had Trip not stepped forward and caught him a second before he lost his balance. For a short, frozen moment, they remained as they were, Malcolm on the very edge of the chair, Trip gripping his arms hard enough to bruise, his heart thumping in chest. Then they began to move again, Malcolm allowing Trip to support him as he climbed off the chair. The near-accident had passed with hardly any noise, although for a moment Trip had been sure the chair would tip over and and catapult the people upstairs out of their beds. His knees trembled as he climbed onto the chair to close the window.

A small noise like a sigh made him turn. Malcolm was no longer standing but had slumped to the floor, half-sitting, half-lying right where Trip had left him.

"Malcolm!"

Trip stepped down from the chair and crouched down next to the other man. Malcolm's eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. Trip's eyes were quickly getting used to the dark and he could see the film of sweat on the Englishman's forehead, as well as the sickly pallor of his face.

"Aw Malcolm."

His guess had been right; Malcolm had been pushing himself, mobilizing his last strength to get here, and was now paying the price.

Trip looked around to see if there was any way to make Malcolm more comfortable. His eyes traveled over canning jars, boxes, an old bicycle, and finally the large bulky thing in the corner. Not quite able to make out what it was, Trip squinted and recognized a backrest and two round armrests on each side... a couch.

"Be right back, Mal."

He got up and went over to take a closer look. The couch looked old and its cover was worn, but it was fairly large, big enough for a man to lie down on it if he didn't mind parking his feet on the armrest. Trip even found a blanket and several pillows on the shelf behind it, and was about to return to Malcolm when he saw that the three cushions on the couch seat could be taken off. He lifted one of them. Beneath it, there was a folded-up mattress, tucked away in the insides of the couch which apparently featured a pull-out mechanism.

Trip hesitated; the couch had definitely seen better days, and opening it might not even work, not to mention produce noises that would not only propel the inhabitants of the house out of their beds, but would sent them down here with a firing squad in tow. He decided to try anyway. Malcolm needed his rest, and he wouldn't say no to stretching out on a real mattress for a change, either.

He took the cushions off and carefully tugged at the bottom edge of the couch. At first, it didn't move, and Trip pulled a little harder, trying to lift the mattress off the ground. Something came loose inside the mechanism and the bed shot out, almost tumbling him over in the process. Trip winced at the loud creak and froze, listening for any noises from upstairs. The house remained silent and he relaxed again, inspecting the bed he had freed from its hideaway inside the couch. The mattress was large enough for two people to stretch out on it; the first real bed he had seen in ages. And he was tired. He hadn't noticed up to this point, being too occupied with finding a place to stay. Now his exhaustion was catching up with him, and he felt ready to flop down on the bed and lie unconscious for the next six hours.

First he had to take care of Malcolm, though. The other man was still sitting motionless with his shoulders slumped, and didn't even raise his head when Trip prodded him.

"Come on, Malcolm." As gently as he could, Trip tried to pull Malcolm to his feet. "Time to go to bed."

Malcolm staggered to his feet, most of his weight on Trip, who wrapped an arm around the Englishman's waist to keep him steady. Judging by the trickles of sweat on his skin, Malcolm's temperature had shot up considerably. Trip supported him all the way to the couch, his heart sinking at the rattling sound whenever Malcolm took a breath.

He helped Malcolm lie down on the bed and made sure to help him on his side so his airway wouldn't clog up. Malcolm shifted restlessly and mumbled something that sounded like "... don't need a hypo, I'm fine". Trip slid a pillow under his head and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off Malcolm's hot forehead, then stretched out next to him on the bed.

"That's okay," he whispered. "Try to sleep now. Wait, I've found a blanket for you."

He picked it up and spread it over the sick man so that he was covered up to his chin. Malcolm muttered again softly and rolled over so that his back was facing Trip.

"Sleep well," Trip said quietly and stuffed one of the pillows under his head, closing his eyes. After weeks of sleeping on newspaper and old cartons, this was luxury beyond comprehension. Slowly, the ache in his joints began to dissipate, leaving behind only the pleasant awareness that he was dry, warm and comfortable, something he hadn't experienced in a long time. He had almost fallen asleep when a hacking sound brought him back. Malcolm was coughing his lungs up, gasping like a drowning person.

"Shhh, it's okay." Trip rubbed Malcolm's back and waited for the coughing to die down. Finally, it did, but Malcolm was still shivering, restlessly turning his head from side to side.

"No..." he whispered and shuddered as if something cold had touched him. "No... don't... please, you can't..."

Trip had no idea what Malcolm was talking about, but the words unsettled him all the same. Something about them was familiar, and this time, the familiarity was not reassuring at all. Malcolm was still trembling, caught in his nightmare, and Trip scooted closer to him, carefully running a hand over Malcolm's damp hair.

"Shhh... it's okay. There's no one here who's gonna hurt you."

Malcolm quieted down at the sound of his voice, and Trip moved closer still, tugging at the blanket until it covered them both. He continued stroking and talking until Malcolm calmed down and lay quietly again, his sleep no longer disturbed by the nightmare. Trip lay still for a moment, listening to their breathing and wondering if he should move over again. He decided against it. The feeling of another body next to his was comforting, and he was finally, finally warm enough. He closed his eyes again, and was soon fast asleep.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for your reviews, everyone!

Volley: You're right about the risk, but that's Trip for you ;).

Glory1863: I love it that you spotted the cats I put in there! Stinky on my mind again, I guess.

Begoogled: I hope this chapter provides some answers to your questions...

mou: I'm happy you're along for the ride :)!

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Chapter 5

_He was in a room, its walls and floor and ceiling gleaming white. There was no door, only a gaping hole where the fourth wall should have been, but he knew that he could not leave. He was afraid and angry and very much confused. Someone spoke to him, sounding urgent at first and then impatient, but Trip did not want to listen. He knew he had to find a way out of the white room, desperately running his hands over the walls to find a hidden door or exit. His fingers encountered only cold smoothness, and he brought his fist down on the wall in frustration. His outburst seemed to have triggered something, for suddenly the light grew very bright, and someone yelled at him..._

"Who are you?"

Trip opened his eyes and squinted in the sudden onslaught of light. The image of the white room was fading away, and he realized that it had been a dream, except for the voice that had woken him up and was continuing to talk in a shrill and piercing tone.

"What are you doing here?"

When his eyes had finally adjusted to the light, Trip saw that the door to the room where he and Malcolm had sought shelter had been opened. On the doorstep stood a plump, elderly woman in t-shirt and sweatpants, holding a baseball bat like a club. The single lightbulb illuminated only part of her face, but what little was visible was tight with anger and fear.

"I want to know what you're doing in here! Who are you? I'm gonna call the police!"

Her voice had taken on an almost hysterical tone, driving the last remnants of Trip's dream away. Suddenly wide awake, he sat up. Next to him, Malcolm had woken up as well, and was frowning as if he wasn't really sure how he had come to be in this place.

"Stay where you are! I'll kill you!" The woman now sounded definitely hysterical, raising the baseball bat as if it were a bible and Trip an attacking vampire.

He held up his hands in a gesture he hoped to be placating. "We didn't mean any harm, ma'am," he said. "We had nowhere to spend the night, and-"

"Well, you're definitely not spending it in my house!"

"Listen..." He tried for a calm tone. "My friend here, he's sick. I'm sorry we broke into your basement, but there was no way he could've stayed out there in the cold. Please-"

"Oh, and so you simply walk in here because you don't know where else to stay!" She narrowed her eyes at him. "You get out of here this instant!"

Trip's own temper flared at being constantly cut off in mid-sentence, but he tried not to let it show in his voice.

"Look, I understand you're upset. We never meant any harm, it's just that my friend here is really sick. If he has to spend the night outside, he could die."

"And I care because?" The woman gripped her baseball bat harder. "You get out of here, now!"

"No." Trip could no longer keep the anger out of his tone, nor did he want to. "I can see that you're not gonna listen to what I'm tryin' to tell you, but there's no way we're leavin' here."

The woman seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Into the silence, Malcolm began to cough, feebly at first, but with growing vigor. Trip could see that his fever had not gone down; if anything, his temperature had risen while he had slept.

"What's wrong with him?" the woman wanted to know with a suspicious look at Malcolm. Trip ignored her, resting a hand on Malcolm's shoulder until the worst was over.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "Don't worry, we're stayin' here."

"You are _not_ staying here!" the woman yelled. "I don't believe this! You're getting out of here right now, hear me?"

Malcolm flinched at the penetrating sound and raised fever-clouded eyes to look at Trip. "Are... are the targeting scanners online?" he asked, although Trip was not sure he had caught the words right, with the woman freaking out in the background.

"Yeah," he said, trying for a soothing voice. He wondered what a "targeting scanner" was and why Malcolm would worry about it. "Yeah, they're online, don't worry. Everything's just fine."

"Are you like totally crazy?" The woman seemed to have forgotten that she was afraid of them and took a step towards the couch. "Are you listening to me? I said I want you out of here, now!"

Trip turned back to look at her. "No. You can see that he's really sick. I'm sorry you're upset, but I'm not dragging him out into the cold in this condition."

The woman stared at him as if trying to decide whether to do a little plastic surgery on his head with her baseball bat. Trip tensed, prepared to jump up should she try to attack him. He was fairly sure he could wrestle the bat from her hands before she could do any damage.

The woman, however, backed away from the couch, approaching the door.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Listen closely, buddy. I'm going to go upstairs now, and there I'm gonna call the police. They'll be here in about ten minutes, and I'm gonna tell them that you trespassed on my property and tried to rob me."

"We didn't-" Trip began angrily, but she cut him off.

"Ten minutes," she said. "I'm locking the basement door, in case you get any ideas. And don't even try to come after me, or I'll smash your head in." She pointed the baseball bat at him for emphasis, then left the room and slammed the door shut.

Trip stared at the closed door for a moment, then let out a sigh and looked at Malcolm, who was lying on his side with his eyes closed and his breath coming in wheezy gasps. There was no way Malcolm could go anywhere, let alone climb back out the way they had come in. Briefly, Trip considered going after the woman to try and talk to her, but remembering the homicidal glint in her eyes, he decided against it. Being clubbed to death by a madwoman with a baseball bat didn't seem like a pretty way to die.

And maybe it was just as well. The police might believe that they were burglars, but even if they did, they couldn't simply ignore the fact that Malcolm was seriously ill. At this point, spending the night in a prison ward didn't sound so bad.

Malcolm started to cough again and Trip searched his pockets for a handkerchief. He found one just in time and held in front of Malcolm's mouth, trying not to look too closely at the things Malcolm was coughing up. As he laid the handkerchief aside, there were blood stains on it. A small trickle of it was running down Malcolm's chin, and Trip reached out to wipe it off.

"It's okay," he said quietly. Malcolm opened eyes that were red-rimmed and watery from coughing.

"Are we... are we leaving?" he asked, then coughed some more. "Is it morning yet?"

"No," Trip shook his head. "We're okay. Try to get some sleep."

Obediently, Malcolm closed his eyes again and had soon dozed off. Trip sat there and stroked Malcolm's back, patting it a little now and then to ward off another coughing fit. He was tired and wished he could have gone back to sleep himself, and to hell with the woman and her threat to call the police. He knew he should probably be more worried at the prospect of getting arrested, but it didn't seem that a lot could happen to them if they were. Sure, Tom was convinced that the police solved the problem of too many arrestees and too few cells by dragging people to the basement and beating them to death, but then again, Tom also believed that the government was controlled by aliens from outer space, which he claimed to have met personally. And even if Tom's suspicions about the police were partly true, Trip knew he wouldn't leave Malcolm behind and make his getaway before they got here. He knew little about this place or himself and nothing at all about his former life, but he knew that he and Malcolm needed to stay together. It seemed as obvious to him as the fact that he was called Trip Tucker.

He wasn't sure how long he had waited when he heard voices upstairs, talking with the woman. She seemed to have calmed down somewhat, and even laughed at one point. Then, steps descended the stairs, and the door was pushed open again. He blinked as someone turned a switch and the lightbulb came to life.

There were two police officers, an elderly man and a middle-aged woman with a freckled face. The plump woman was peering over their shoulders, her baseball bat still clutched in one hand.

"See?" she said eagerly, as if she had been secretly afraid of finding nothing but an empty couch on entering the room. "They're still here."

The policewoman frowned and took a step towards the bed. "He doesn't look so good," she said, looking at Malcolm who was still half-asleep, one hand draped over his eyes as if to shield them from the light. "Is he sick?"

"That's what I've been tellin' her." Trip pointed at the plump woman, who glared at him. "He's really sick, been for a wile. We couldn't stay out there."

"Well," the policeman said, coming closer as well. "Even so, you can't just walk in here. This is private property. You've got to leave now and take your buddy to a doctor."

"He can't walk," Trip said. "He's got a fever. If you kick us out of here onto the street, he'll die."

"You're not staying here!" Baseball bat in hand, the plump woman had taken another step forward. "I don't care if he's sick or not, I want you out of my house!"

"Now wait a minute, ma'am," the policewoman reached for the baseball bat and took it from the woman's hand. "They're not going to stay here. We'll see to that. But first we need to figure out what to do about him." She nodded at Malcolm.

"Well, I suppose we could take him to the hospital," her colleague said. "He really doesn't look like he can walk there."

The woman looked decidedly unhappy at his suggestion. "And what about him?" she asked, pointing at Trip. "You let him go, he'll be back in my basement in no time. And I won't-"

"He'll come with us," the policewoman interrupted her, obviously unwilling to listen to another rant. "He can help us with him."

Trip nodded, feeling greatly relieved. Malcolm didn't seem to have caught much of the conversation, and blinked in confusion when Trip and the policeman helped him sit up.

"We should take phase pistols along, sir," he muttered, then made as if to lie back down.

"Can't stay here, buddy." The policeman caught Malcolm by the arm and pulled him back into a sitting position. "We're gonna take you to a doctor, okay? Then you'll feel all better."

Trip took Malcolm's other arm and pulled it over his shoulders, then, together with the policeman, helped him stand up. Malcolm's legs could hardly support him, and Trip and the policeman carried most of his weight as they slowly made their way to the door. The plump woman followed shortly after, seeming far less confident than she had with the baseball bat in her hands.

"What about my basement? I'm not going to sit on the couch after he's been spreading his germs all over it."

"Then don't," Trip bit back, hating the way the woman talked about Malcolm as if he were a lice-ridden stray dog.

She took a deep breath, but before she could say anything, the policewoman cut her off.

"Get a disinfectant and spray it on the cushions and the blanket, then put them out to air," she said. "Should take care of anything that's left."

Step by awkward step, they climbed the stairs until they were standing in a narrow, smelly hallway. The woman had followed them, and was now standing next to the front door on the left, hands on her hips.

"That's it? They trespassed on my property, and I'm supposed to let it go just like that?"

The policeman, his arm still wrapped around Malcolm's waist, sighed. "You can file a report if you like, ma'am, but personally I'd save myself the trouble. And if I remember right, you locked the basement door before you called us, right?"

"So what?"

There was a chuckle in his voice as he answered. "Well, it's illegal to lock up a trespasser and hold them on your property until the police arrive. You wouldn't want to get yourself in trouble, ma'am."

"What!" Her face reddened. "That's-"

"State law," the policewoman finished for her quite calmly. "If you'll excuse us, ma'am, we need to get going. If there's nothing else..."

The woman looked very much as if she would have liked to add something, but then seemed to decide not to argue with the law. Angrily, she moved away from the entrance and disappeared through another door, slamming it shut behind her.

"Nice," the policeman muttered as they left the house and walked down the few steps to the paved garden path that led to the front yard. It was still cold, and Malcolm shivered, his forehead gleaming with sweat. The last few meters to the curb seemed to take forever, and when they had finally arrived next to the police car, Malcolm sagged against Trip, quite obviously unconscious.

The policewoman quickly opened the door and helped Trip and the policeman to move Malcolm to the backseat. When Malcolm was settled in the car, half-sitting, half-leaning against Trip, she walked to the back and returned a moment later with a gray blanket in her hands.

"Here," she said. "Try to keep him warm until we're there."

"Thanks." Trip wrapped the blanket around Malcolm's shoulders, using a corner of it to wipe the sweat off the sick man's forehead. Through the grille that separated the back from the front, he could see her taking a seat next to her colleague, who started the car.

"That's okay," she replied, and then, with a look at the rearview mirror, added, "Seatbelts."

"What? Oh, right." Trip fumbled for the seatbelt, then helped Malcolm with his, thinking that these things looked just wrong. He had no idea how they were supposed to look, however, and so he let the thought go, as he had done with so many thoughts in the last few days. He leaned back and, with Malcolm's head resting on his shoulder, watched the houses outside pass by as the car gained speed.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you for reviewing, I love getting your feedback :)!

There is sort of a cross-over with another series in this chapter, although I changed the name a little bit. I'm curious if anyone will recognize her! Disclaimer goes for all the characters involved, of course, except for those I introduced myself.

Enjoy!

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Chapter 6

The police car turned into a busy street, weaving its way towards a traffic light. Trip had been close to dozing off, but the honking horns and screeching brakes from outside jolted him awake every time his head would start to nod. He could not remember riding in a car before, but all the same, he had a vague feeling that the dashboard should look different. For some reason, he winced every time the policeman turned the steering wheel, thinking that there should be... buttons? Touch pads? He did not know. He could never quite put a finger on the feeling, but it happened almost every day that he looked at something to do with technology and inwardly shook his head.

Malcolm's head tilted forward, and Trip shifted so that it wouldn't slip off his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of Malcolm's skin against his neck, and heard the rasping that accompanied each breath.

"Almost there," he said quietly, although he had no idea how long it would take until they arrived. He simply felt that he should say something, even if Malcolm couldn't hear him.

"You should've taken him to a doctor."

Trip raised his head and found that the policewoman was watching him in the rearview mirror. There was no accusation in her eyes, only a statement of fact.

He said nothing. They had tried at one of the shelters, had asked if anyone there could take a look at Malcolm. The manager had pointed at a long line of people waiting in front of a small white tent, where two harassed nurses examined one patient a minute, all out on the open street.

"You can try," he had said. "But it's not much use lining up if you can still walk and talk. We've got to save the drugs for the worst cases."

At the time, Malcolm could not be counted among the worst cases, and so they had left without bothering to get in line. Tom had warned them against going to a real hospital.

"They'll want your ID and your social whatever number and all that sort of stuff. That is, you wouldn't even get in. They don't want no street bums hangin' round in their waitin' room."

Trip supposed that they should have tried anyway, but they had never even seriously considered it. Maybe when nobody wanted you, you stopped trusting people and asking them for help. Or maybe they had just been stupid. In any case, he had no answer to give to the policewoman, and only looked back at her without saying a word.

She sighed and turned back to the front. "There we are."

The car slowed down, then turned into an overcrowded parking lot in front of a large building. In between the ambulances, people were milling about, most of them with a tight and unhappy look on their faces. As the car pulled into a parking space, medics in fluorescent vests rushed by wheeling a gurney towards the double glass doors of the entrance. Trip couldn't see the person on the gurney, and only heard their shouts as they disappeared inside.

The policeman shut off the engine and half turned around. "Can he walk? 'Cause they never have any weelchairs left."

Trip nudged Malcolm's arm. "Mal? Malcolm? Gotta wake up now."

Malcolm's eyes cracked open, and he raised a hand as if to wipe the sweat off his forehead, but stopped half way to his face. "W-where...?"

"We're at the hospital," Trip said. "Do you think you can walk? It's not far."

"I don't think it's safe, sir," Malcolm said, slurring the words as if he were drunk.

Trip frowned. The things Malcolm said in his feverish delirium were unsettling in their familiarity and confusing, as they made no sense at all. Some of the words in particular, like _targeting scanners_ or _phasing pistols_ (Trip wasn't sure he remembered that one right), sounded strange and at the same time stirred a feeling as if he should remember something; something which kept eluding him the harder he tried to recall it.

Malcolm muttered something else, about a commanding officer not leaving the ship, and laid his head back on Trip's shoulder, closing his eyes. The policewoman sighed and got out of the car.

"I'll go and see if they have a wheelchair," she said. "Be right back, Bill."

He nodded. "'Kay."

After she had left, Bill leaned forward and began to rummage through the glove compartment until he had found something wrapped in black and red foil. He pulled the wrapping off with his teeth, and Trip saw that it was a chocolate bar. The sight immediately made his mouth water, and he quickly looked away. It was more than twelve hours ago when he had last had something to eat.

"Want one?" Bill was looking at him, eyebrows raised.

Trip nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks."

He tried not to seem too desperate as he tore the plastic wrapping off the candy bar and quickly stuffed half of it into his mouth. It was sweet and sticky and better than anything he had eaten in a long time. Still chewing, he wrapped the second half back into the foil to save it for later, and was about to put it into his pocket when he noticed Bill's look.

"You can have another one, y'know," the policeman said, his voice a mixture of amusement and pity. "Far as I know, there's a whole bunch in there."

Trip's cheeks reddened when Bill reached into the compartment again and produced another candy bar.

"Thanks," he muttered, suddenly very aware of his shabby appearance and hungry face. He slipped the second bar into his pocket and took out the other one, unwrapped it and ate it, avoiding Bill's eyes.

"What's your name?" the policeman wanted to know, obviously trying to break the awkward silence.

Trip looked up again. "Charles Tucker," he introduced himself

"And him?" Bill pointed at Malcolm.

"Malcolm Reed."

Bill nodded. "You from here?" he asked then.

Trip hesitated. "I think so," he said and instantly wished he could take the words back. _Great. Now he thinks you're a poor bastard __**and**__ stupid._

Bill chuckled. "You think so?"

Trip only shrugged, too tired to think of an explanation for his pointless answer. It wasn't even the truth; he didn't think Malcolm and he were from here.

Bill looked as if he wanted to ask something else, but to Trip's relief he was distracted by his colleague, who had returned pushing a wheelchair, which she parked next to the car.

"How did you do that?" Bill asked.

She grinned and shrugged. "They shouldn't leave those things standing around in there. Someone might just take them."

Bill shook his head. "Well, let's get Sleeping Beauty inside before they notice that it's gone."

Moving Malcolm into the wheelchair was easier said than done, but eventually they managed. As they passed the entrance to the building, they were almost run over by another team of medics, who had a gurney with a screaming girl between them. The girl's black hair and left cheek were covered with drying blood.

Trip looked after them as they rushed down the hallway and disappeared in one of the rooms. No one seemed to spare them so much as a glance, even though the Emergency Room was crammed full of people. There was no empty seat left in the waiting area, and so they parked the wheelchair next a wall. Trip surveyed the rows of benches and saw people sleeping, people gazing into thin air, people muttering with their neighbors. No one looked as if they had much hope of leaving any time soon.

"Officers?" A nurse had appeared out of nowhere, holding a stack of pale-green cards. She gave Malcolm a quick once-over, then turned back to the police officers. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Bill's colleague said. "We got a call because these two broke into a basement. He-" she pointed at Malcolm, whose head had sunken to his chest - "-didn't look so good, so we took him here. He's been out of it for a while now."

The nurse leaned down and lifted Malcolm's chin. Malcolm's face was pale with tiny drops of perspiration, which trickled down his forehead as she moved his head. The nurse frowned and let go of him again, then handed Bill one of the green cards.

"Fill that in for him," she said. "I'll go check if one of the doctors has time for you."

Bill took a pen out of his chest pocket. "Thanks."

She nodded and left. Trip wasn't sure whether to feel worried or relieved; the fact that Malcolm had been moved to the top of the list meant that they wouldn't have to spend hours in the waiting room; it also meant that Malcolm's condition was serious enough to make a whole bunch of sick people wait even longer for their turn.

"Does he have any papers?"

Trip turned his head and found Bill looking at him, pen poised over the green form the nurse had given him.

"No," Trip said. _At least I don't think so_, he added in thought.

Bill raised his eyebrows. "Nothing? No ID? Social security number? Driver's license?"

Trip mutely shook his head. He wasn't even sure what a social security number was, let alone how to get one.

Bill's eyebrows climbed even higher, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "Well... what about his birthday? He does have one, doesn't he?"

"September 2, 2121," Trip answered without thinking. A moment's silence followed, both police officers staring at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. Trip frowned. Then he realized what was wrong, and felt himself blushing.

"2021, I mean," he said, although deep down, something was telling him that it wasn't true. He _had_ meant 2121, even though it didn't make any sense at all.

Bill gave him a strange look, then proceeded to fill in the date.

"I don't suppose you know where he was born?"

"England, I think," Trip said, and Bill scribbled it on the form.

"Anything else? Medical history? Parents? Relatives?"

Trip only shook his head, tempted to make something up just so he could say _something_. If the two police officers hadn't thought that he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic so far, then they certainly did now. The look Bill exchanged with his colleague seemed to say as much.

"I guess it'll have to do." Bill scratched the back of his head as he read through the form. He paused, then turned away a little and scribbled something else onto the sheet. Trip strained his head, but he couldn't make out the words, and a moment later Bill turned the form around so that its front was concealed from view.

Trip was still debating whether he should ask him about it when the nurse returned. "Room 4," she said and took the green form from Bill's hand. She quickly read through what little information was on there, then motioned for them to follow her. "This way."

Trip tried to catch a glimpse of the form, but the nurse had already slipped it into her pocket. They went down the hallway and around a corner, where the nurse opened a door to one of the rooms. Bill steered Malcolm's wheelchair inside, his colleague and Trip following shortly after.

"Help him lie down and take his shirt off," the nurse said, nodding at the examination bed in the middle of the room. "The doctor will be with you in a minute."

She left and Trip resigned to the fact that there was no discreet way of finding out what Bill had written onto the form that he wouldn't show him. Together with the two police officers, he half-carried, half-led Malcolm over to the bed and helped him lie down on top of it. Malcolm let it happen, and only raised a hand in feeble protest when Trip began to take off his jacket.

"Cold," he croaked.

"I know," Trip said. "It's only for a moment so the doctor can take a look at you."

"No doctor," Malcolm whispered. Trip wasn't sure if he wanted to say that there was no doctor or that he didn't want to see a doctor, and only shook his head in reply.

"It's okay, Mal."

Malcolm closed his eyes again and said nothing when Trip lowered the top part of his overall and took off the two shirts underneath. Bill watched with his eyebrows raised.

"That some sort of club dress?" he asked, nodding first at Malcolm's overall, then at Trip's.

_Wish I knew_, Trip replied in thought. Aloud he said, "Lady at the welfare office gave them to us. I've no idea where they came from."

Bill didn't look convinced, but was distracted when the door opened. A small, brunette woman in a white coat entered the room, smiling as she surveyed the small group assembled there.

"I'm April Lockhart," she introduced herself. "Officers..."

Bill and his colleague nodded a greeting, and she looked at Trip. "And you are...?"

"Charles Tucker," Trip said and dragged up a smile for her. "Pleased to meet you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill raising his eyebrows at the doctor and Dr. Lockhart giving an almost imperceptible nod in return. Trip had no idea what their silent exchange was all about, and decided to ignore it for the moment. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself - more than he already had - by asking.

Dr. Lockhart went over to the examination table where Malcolm had fallen asleep, snoring quietly. She laid a hand on his arm and shook him gently.

"Mr. Reed?" she asked. "Can you hear me? I need you to wake up."

Trip took an instant liking to her. She must have concluded from the triage form that Malcolm was an ordinary street bum, someone who had to break into houses to have a place to spend the night, and yet she addressed him like any other patient.

Malcolm opened his eyes and turned his head in confusion.

"I'm Dr. Lockhart," she introduced herself again. "I'll need to examine your chest to find out what's wrong with you. Do you think you can sit up?"

"No eels," Malcolm croaked.

Dr. Lockhart nodded, as if his statement made absolute sense to her. "No eels," she agreed. "Maybe your friend could help you sit up."

She looked at Trip, who walked over to the bed and slid an arm under Malcolm's shoulders.

"C'mon, Mal. The doctor's gotta take a look at your chest."

Malcolm allowed himself to be helped into a sitting position, leaning heavily on Trip for support. Dr. Lockhart took off the stethoscope around her neck and inserted the plugs into her ears, then laid the disc on Malcolm's chest.

"Try to take a deep breath, Mr. Reed."

Malcolm didn't seem to have heard her, his eyes drifting closed again. Trip nudged his arm.

"Malcolm. Take a deep breath."

Malcolm's eyes opened again and he sat up a little straighter, drawing in a deep breath. Dr. Lockhart's eyebrows pulled together.

"Hmmm."

She moved the chestpiece a little to the left and listened again. After a few moments, she lowered the stethoscope and began to tap lightly onto Malcolm's chest.

"What's wrong with him?" the policewoman asked from the background. "Can you tell?"

Dr. Lockhart straightened up again, hooking the stethoscope back around her neck. "He's got pneumonia," she said and looked at Trip. "When did he start to feel sick?"

"Two weeks ago," Trip admitted in shame. _Why _hadn't they come here earlier? "We didn't know it was so bad," he added, aware how lame that sounded.

Dr. Lockhart only nodded. "It _is _quite bad. His lungs are seriously infected. I guess he started coughing up blood or pus?"

Trip nodded. "He coughed up a little blood when he woke up a few hours ago."

"I thought so." She turned away from the bed and walked over to the intercom on the wall next to the door. "I'm going to call the nurses to take him to the X-ray room. That okay with you, Mr. Reed?"

Malcolm raised his head at the mention of his name, but he didn't seem to have caught the question.

"Tired," he whispered, and made as if to lie back down. Trip gently caught him by the arm. He wasn't sure exactly where Dr. Lockhart wanted to take Malcolm - he had heard the word X-ray before, but for some reason it wasn't something he associated with medical procedures. It didn't matter, though; they would do whatever was necessary to help Malcolm get better.

"Just a little longer, Mal. Then you can sleep all you want."

"That's right." Dr. Lockhart had returned to the table. "We're going to take an X-ray of your chest to see which areas of your lungs are infected. Have you had an X-ray taken before, Mr. Reed?"

She looked at Trip, who shook his head in reply. Somehow, he was fairly sure that Malcolm had never been submitted to any such procedure.

Dr. Lockhart nodded. "It's part of the normal examination procedure. You'll be placed in front of an X-ray tube and someone will take a picture of your thorax. You'll feel nothing at all."

"Then sleep," Malcolm muttered, and she smiled.

"Yes, then we'll leave you alone so you can sleep."

Malcolm nodded and closed his eyes, a feeble cough shaking his body. Trip noticed Dr. Lockhart's worried look and once more wished he had insisted on Malcolm seeing a doctor, no matter how much the Englishman had groused and grumbled at the idea. If Malcolm was seriously, maybe even fatally ill... Trip tried not to think of how it would be, all alone out there on the streets, trying to survive on a day-by-day basis without a single thing or person to hold on to. It was a selfish way of thinking about it, but he needed Malcolm. He wasn't sure if he would make it on his own.

The door opened and two nurses with a wheeled gurney entered the room. Trip watched as they positioned it next to the examination table, then helped Malcolm lie down on it. Malcolm submitted, closing his eyes as a blanket settled over him and the security straps were pulled tight.

Trip started to follow as they wheeled Malcolm out of the room, but was stopped when Dr. Lockhart laid a hand on his arm.

"Mr. Tucker? Do you have a moment?"

Again, she exchanged a strange look with the two police officers, as if they shared a common understanding Trip was no part of. Bill nodded and turned towards the door.

"Well, we'd better get going then. Thanks, doctor."

Dr. Lockhart nodded at them. "I'll call you when I can tell you more."

"Thanks for your help," Trip added quickly.

"That's okay. Good luck," Bill said to him, his voice carrying an undertone of... pity? Trip frowned as they left, wondering what the hell was going on here. Something was off, and he had a distinct feeling that it had something to do with the triage form Bill had filled out. But why wouldn't they tell him? If Malcolm's condition was more serious than the doctor had let on, then he, of all people, had a right to know.

"Mr. Tucker?" Dr. Lockhart said. "I need to talk to you."

"About what?" It came out more defensively than he had intended, but she didn't seem to mind.

"I've got a feeling that there's something you're not telling us."

"Like what?" Trip asked, nervous in spite of himself. If she believed that he was somehow responsible for Malcolm's condition... his thoughts returned to Tom's battered boyfriend scenario. They would be separated, and Trip knew that he could not let that happen. He and Malcolm needed to stay together.

He was so occupied with the idea that her next question completely threw him off track. "Are you or Mr. Reed into drugs, Mr. Tucker?"

He stared at her. "No, we're not. Why are you askin'?"

She merely held his eyes, and he found himself getting more defensive by the second. "Look, I know I sort of messed up his dates for the registration form, but that's just because..."

_... because all I really know is his name and birthday._

"... because he lost his papers. We came into the city only a few days ago, to look for work, and-"

"Mr. Tucker." She sighed. "No one comes here to look for work, not these days. I wish you'd stop lying to me. If you want us to help you, you'll have to tell me the truth."

"I would, if I could," Trip said angrily, and immediately wanted to clap a hand over his mouth.

"If you could?" Dr. Lockhart repeated, surprise showing in her voice. "What do you mean?"

"Nothin'."

"Nothing?"

"Nothin'. I've no idea how we came to be here in this goddamn city. I don't know where we were before or what we did. Hell, I don't even know who I am." He had never intended to say all this; the words seemed to come out all on their own, as if they had been held back for far too long. "We woke up in a backstreet 'bout three weeks ago, and couldn't remember anythin'. I've no idea what happened to us. All I know..." He trailed off, not sure how to describe the snippets of memories that sometimes cropped up in his mind. "All I know is that I've known Malcolm before, and that we don't belong here. This place, this city... it feels wrong."

He turned back to her, and for the first time realized how utterly crazy all of this must sound to her.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

She sighed. "I believe you. The police officer who brought you here wrote on the triage chart that you seemed confused to him. No offense, but you do seem a little... out of sorts."

Trip chuckled mirthlessly. _Understatement of the century_, he thought. He'd be the last one to deny that he and Malcolm were "confused", as she put it.

"Mr. Tucker..." Dr. Lockhart held his eyes as she continued. "Among other things, amnesia can be caused by excessive drug consumption. Are you sure you haven't experienced any withdrawal symptoms after you woke up? Headaches? Nausea?"

Trip was about to shake his head when he realized that he would be telling a lie, claiming that he hadn't experienced any of these things. The thing was, he couldn't tell. For all he knew, he and Malcolm might have had the junkie party of their lives before they had passed out.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But it would be sort of strange for both of us to lose our memories at the same time, wouldn't it? Even if we... took somethin', I mean."

"Some drugs can have unique effects if consumed in a high enough dosage," she replied. "We'll find out about that. To tell the truth, you don't look like drug addicts to me, but we've got to check all possibilities." She paused. "Mr. Tucker... we'll have to keep Mr. Reed here anyway, but I'd suggest that you stay as well. We can take tests to find out what is wrong with you, and maybe find a way to help you. If you agree, we'll admit you and Mr. Reed to the Psych Ward."

Trip said nothing for a moment. He couldn't even come out with the obligatory "But I'm not crazy"; for what he knew, he might be as nutty as a fruitcake.

Dr. Lockhart seemed to have picked up on his thoughts. "I'm not suggesting that you are in need of psychiatric treatment," she said. "You do seem to have a problem, though. If you agree to stay, there's a chance that we can help you."

Trip lowered his eyes, looking down at his cold-bitten hands. Maybe she was right. And even if their "problem" remained unchanged... there was food in a Psych Ward, right? Food and clean clothes and a bed to sleep in. And he and Malcolm would stay together.

He raised his head. "Okay," he said. It wasn't nearly as hard as he had imagined it would be. "Okay. I'll stay."

TBC…

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks for the reviews, everyone, they're very much appreciated :)!

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Chapter 7

Trip lay on his bed next to the window, hands folded behind his head. Outside, the city was coming to life as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, endless rows of lamps and windows illuminating the darkening streets. Idly, he wondered how much energy the inhabitants used every night to keep their city nice and bright, and was surprised when his mind provided him with a more or less exact number. He had no idea why he would know such things, although it did seem that details centered around technology came to him quite naturally. The day before, he had even fixed the TV in the common room, a gaggle of nurses and patients watching him and offering the occasional suggestion, the greater part of them obviously convinced that he had no idea what he was doing. Truth was, he hadn't; he had simply followed his instincts, with the result of a functioning TV twenty minutes later. Trip smiled a little as he remembered their faces. After being kicked out and chased away from pretty much everywhere for three weeks, he had to admit that a little appreciation did a world of good.

He turned his head and looked at the other bed where Malcolm lay sleeping. Malcolm had done little else for the last three days since they had been admitted to the Psych Ward, and Dr. Lockhart, who dropped by from time to time, said that he was beginning to recover. Trip, for his part, saw no difference; Malcolm was still as pale as he had been, a canula in his nose to provide him with additional oxygen and another tube in his hand to supply a steady flow of fluids and antibiotics. The doctors, however, were confident that it was only a matter of time until he would get better, and Trip was glad to believe them. He knew Malcolm had been damn lucky; a few more days out on the cold and windy streets, and he might not have made it. Like Dr. Lockhart had said, breaking into the basement was the best thing they could have possibly done.

In the meantime, the last of the sunlight had faded away, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Trip switched on his bed lamp, turning over so he was facing Malcolm's bed and the door. As most of the patients went to bed right after dinner, all noise more or less ceased after 7 pm, and he found himself getting tired simply because it was so quiet. He slept a lot these days, mostly because there was little else for him to do: watching TV in the common room wasn't a lot of fun with a bunch of old geezers commenting on everything that happened on the screen, and he had finished both of the old paperback novels he had found. The only change were Dr. Lockharts visits, and she never stayed for long.

Trip's eyes had started to close when a quiet cough from the other bed brought him back. Malcolm coughed a second time, and then raised a hand to his mouth.

"Malcolm?" Trip asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "You awake?"

He hadn't expected it, but Malcolm turned his head to look at him, his eyes still puffy from sleeping and rimmed with red. His hair was mussed and a five o'clock shadow darkened his jaw.

"Trip?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "What time is it?"

"'Bout 8.30," Trip answered. He got up and went over to Malcolm's bed, pulling up a chair to sit down next to him. "How're you feelin'?"

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Tired," he said then. "How long was I asleep?"

"You were in and out for about three days," Trip answered and smiled when Malcolm's eyes widened. "You woke up a few times, but you were never really there. Dr. Lockhart said it's normal. You were in a pretty bad state when we came here."

"The last thing I remember clearly is falling asleep in a basement," Malcolm said. "Someone found us, didn't they?"

Trip nodded. "The lady upstairs called the police. When they saw how bad you were doin', they decided to take us to the hospital."

Malcolm frowned as he digested the information. Then he glanced at Trip's bed. "They let you stay?"

"Well..." Trip hesitated, not sure how Malcolm was going to take the next part. "I told Dr. Lockhart about our, well, they say it's amnesia. They've admitted us to the Psych Ward."

Malcolm was silent for a moment, his face not giving away what he was thinking. Then he asked quietly, "I've been here the whole time?"

"Yeah. They wanted to put you in General Medicine first, but there was no bed available, and Dr. Lockhart talked the doctors here into admittin' you. She's been droppin' by to check on you."

Malcolm nodded and turned his head to look out the window. The red and white lights reflected on his face, outlining his sunken cheeks.

"Well," he said after a moment, turning back to Trip, "at least there are no bars in front of the windows. That would be rather depressing."

It was said with a smirk, and Trip smiled a little in response. He had thought the exact same thing when he had first come in here. "Naw. They're not lockin' us up. We're not supposed to leave the ward, but 'cept for the main entrance the doors aren't secured. No straitjackets either," he added with a small chuckle.

Still smirking, Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not sure I should be saying this, but I believe I prefer this to sleeping in a warehouse or some stranger's basement."

Trip nodded. "Yeah, me too."

They were silent for a few minutes, then Malcolm asked quietly, "What's going to happen now? Do you know?"

"They're testin' us for drugs," Trip replied. At Malcolm's sharp turn of the head, he added, "Dr. Lockhart thinks we might've lost our memories because we got high on the wrong stuff."

Malcolm slowly shook his head, considering. "No," he said then. "I'm not sure why, but I know that this didn't happen because we were using. I can't really explain why, but..."

"Yeah," Trip said, thinking of the occasional glimpse his mind allowed him of what he believed to be his former life. "They insist on checkin', though." He paused. "Maybe there's somethin' they can do, even if the tests turn out negative. I mean..."

He trailed off, not sure what it was that he had wanted to say. He didn't believe that the doctors would find the mental equivalent of a button to magically recover their memories; things didn't work that way, he knew that. Still... this couldn't be it, could it? A lifetime of rummaging through trashcans and sleeping in abandoned warehouses, recalling their former lives - their _identities_ - only in dreams and rare feelings of déjà vu. There had to be something more, something they could do, even if it took allowing a bunch of doctors to poke and prod their heads.

"You're an optimist, you know that?"

Malcolm was looking at him, a smile playing around his lips. Trip sighed.

"Yeah, well. Goes with the territory, I guess."

Malcolm only nodded.

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The following morning, Trip woke up to the sound of rain pattering on the window. The sky was gray and the city looked even less inviting than usual, soaked in water and the dirt that was coming down with the rain. Trip thought of Tom back in his warehouse and hoped that the old man hadn't decided to spend the night in a doorway as he sometimes did. Briefly, he wondered if Tom would worry about them when they didn't come back, and then decided that he wouldn't. Tom was a nice enough guy, but he wasn't given to sentimentalities. And their makeshift beds in the warehouse would soon be occupied by someone else, maybe someone who would have more booze to share and who wouldn't draw Ashley's pitying looks by coughing their lungs out. No, it wasn't likely that Tom was going to miss them.

Trip rolled over on his back. Malcolm was still sleeping, his blanket drawn all the way to his chin. The hand with the IV was resting next to him, palm turned upwards so that the needle was pressing into the pillow.

Pushing his own blanket aside, Trip got up and walked on bare feet over to Malcolm's bed. Gently, so as not to wake the sleeping man, he took Malcolm's hand and turned it around, straightening the tube so that the flow of the medication was no longer impeded. Malcolm shifted a little and sighed, then curled his fingers around the blanket and pulled it over his face. Trip smiled at the sight and stood there for a moment, listening to Malcolm's even breathing. Then he turned away and picked up his clothes from the chair where he had left them. On his arrival, the nurses had given him sweatpants and two t-shirts, taking his and Malcolm's clothes away for cleaning. For some strange reason, giving up the blue jumpsuits hadn't felt right, grimy and unwashed as they were. The jumpsuits were the only things left from their former lives, and without them, Trip felt as if something were missing. He had said nothing, however, not wanting to appear ungrateful. He couldn't have explained the feeling, anyway.

He went into the small bathroom and paused for a moment to look at the face in the mirror. It was not quite as thin as it had been when he had first come here, the shadows under his eyes not quite as dark. It also helped that he could shave regularly; with the stubble gone, Trip felt a lot less like the typical scruffy street bum.

He took off his hospital PJs and stepped into the shower, closing his eyes as the warm water began to pour down on him. This was luxury, and he intended to enjoy every second of it. Clean clothes, food, a bed... it was amazing how much these things mattered. In the past three days, he had begun to feel like a different person, someone who had the time and energy to think about things other than the daily necessities. Repairing the TV had been such a thing; he had enjoyed the feel of the tools in his hands, the way he instinctively seemed to know what to do. It had been... fun. Yeah. Something he would like to do again, even if it wasn't essential or important. Just because.

He left the shower, shaved and dressed, then wiped the steam off the mirror to examine the cold sore in the corner of his mouth. With the cream the nurse had given him, it was starting to disappear as well; another reminder of his life on the streets that he wouldn't miss.

As he left the bathroom, he found Malcolm awake and sitting up in bed, talking to Nurse Collins, the middle-aged woman who came by their room every morning.

"... if you're feeling well enough," she was saying as Trip closed the door behind himself.

"Mornin'", he said, and she turned around.

"Ah, Mr. Tucker." She smiled. "You're up early."

"Yeah, the rain woke me up." He smiled at her and went over to his bed. "Mornin', Mal."

Malcolm only nodded back at him, looking altogether quite unhappy.

"I was just telling Mr. Reed that we can remove his catheter if he's feeling up to using a bedpan," Nurse Collins continued cheerfully. "Right, Mr. Reed?"

She didn't wait for an answer and pulled back the blankets before Malcolm could make a grab for them. Trip turned to the window as if he had never seen anything more fascinating than the cars on their way downtown, and only turned back when the nurse announced that they were done.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it, Mr. Reed?" she asked, and Malcolm obediently shook his head.

She went into the bathroom and returned with a basin full of water that she set down on the rolling night stand and pulled it close to the bed.

"Now if you'd like to wash, and maybe Mr. Tucker could bring you back some breakfast. You were going to get yourself breakfast, right, Mr. Tucker?" She smiled at Trip, who got up from his bed. He wasn't really hungry yet, but had learned soon enough that it was better not to argue with Nurse Collins if one knew what was good for oneself.

"Yeah, I was just about to go. What would you like, Malcolm?"

Malcolm opened his mouth, but the nurse was quicker.

"Just a little oatmeal for starters," she said. "That okay with you, Mr. Reed?"

"Oatmeal's fine, thank you," he answered, and she turned her bright smile on him again.

"Great." She handed him a washcloth, then looked back at Trip. "That's very nice of you, Mr. Tucker."

"That's okay."

He left and closed the door behind himself, grinning a little as he heard her tell Malcolm not to forget his ears. Nurse Collins was a mother of three little children, and seemed to regard her patients in much the same light as her offspring: helpless and in need of a firm guiding hand.

Trip made his way down the hallway, which was mostly empty except for old Mr. Levine, who got up at 4.30 every day and wandered through the ward until it was time for breakfast.

Trip nodded at him and went into the cafeteria, where the patients who could walk collected their meals three times a day. Except for the orderly on duty, who was sitting at one of the tables drinking coffee and reading his newspaper, the room was still deserted. Trip picked up one of the trays and, as every day, marveled at the variety of choice the breakfast buffet provided. He had heard some of the other patients complain about the food, but could not really understand why; to him, every meal seemed to offer an abundance of delicacies. Well, maybe he was the wrong person to ask, considering that he had been rummaging through trashcans only a few days ago.

He piled a stack of toast on his plate, adding slices of bacon and a helping of scrambled eggs, then scooped Malcolm's oatmeal into a bowl and added it to the collection on his tray. He got a cup of coffee for himself and tea for Malcolm, and on the spur of the moment took a plate with two pancakes. He wasn't particularly fond of pancakes himself, but for some reason he had a feeling that Malcolm would like them. After Nurse Collins was gone, of course.

Malcolm had finished washing when Trip returned to their room, sitting back on his freshly changed bed and watching the nurse as she changed Trip's sheets, his hair still damp and falling into his forehead.

"We should get someone to cut your hair," Nurse Collins remarked cheerfully as she served Malcolm his tea and oatmeal and tucked a paper napkin under his chin. "Tidy you up a little, hm?"

Trip stared at her for a moment. There it was again, the uncanny feeling that she reminded him of someone he used to know. The vague image of a plump figure and a round, smiling face appeared in his mind, but was gone again in a matter of seconds. Only the familiar feeling of déjà vu remained, so strong that he could not write it off as an illusion.

"Mr. Tucker?"

He blinked. Nurse Collins was watching him with raised eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said and stood his tray on the small table, sitting down. "Yeah, I just... remembered somethin'."

She smiled and turned to the door. "Well, I'll see you later, then. Oh, and Mr. Tucker, please take your dishes back when you're done."

He resisted the urge to answer "Yes mom" and nodded, watching her leave. Then he looked at Malcolm, who was slowly and without much enthusiasm eating his oatmeal.

"Looks good," he said.

"Yeah," Malcolm replied with a wistful glance at Trip's bacon, and lifted another spoonful. "It does."

He ate a few more bites, then put the spoon aside.

"That oatmeal's great stuff," Trip said. "I wish they'd had some more, but yours was the last bit I could scrape outta the bowl. It's the first thing gone every mornin'."

"Really," Malcolm said. He picked up the spoon again, ate another mouthful and smiled a little. "Well, it's actually quite good, really."

Trip could no longer keep a straight face and cracked up, laughing even harder when Malcolm's eyes widened in realization.

"Want a pancake, Mal?"

Malcolm had taken a deep breath, very likely with the intention of telling Trip just what he thought of Americans trying to be funny, but let it out again when he saw the pancakes. A reluctant smile began to spread on his face, and he set the oatmeal aside.

"Give me those, idiot."

Trip was still grinning as he carried the pancakes over to Malcolm's bed. "Jus' be quick, or Nurse Collins will have my head on a platter."

"And it would serve you right." Malcolm began to pluck apart one of the pancakes as Trip returned to his own breakfast. "After all, you're disregarding medical orders." He popped one of the pieces into his mouth. "I'm not up to having solid food, you know."

Trip shook his head in mock resignation. "You risk your neck for a guy and that's what you get for it."

Malcolm had opened his mouth to reply when suddenly the door opened. Expecting to see a wrathful nurse on the doorstep, Trip turned around, his guilty expression mirrored on Malcolm's face. Instead of Nurse Collins, however, Dr. Lockhart entered the room, smiling when she saw them.

"Good morning," she said. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Reed."

She went over to the bed to shake his hand. "I'm April Lockhart, the doctor who admitted you. I don't think you'll remember me, you were quite out of it at the time."

Malcolm smiled. "I don't really remember much of that day. Thank you for your help, doctor."

"You're welcome. How are you feeling today?"

"Better," Malcolm replied, discreetly moving the plate with the half-eaten pancakes to his nightstand. "Much better, actually."

Dr. Lockhart glanced at the plate and smiled a little, but she said nothing and turned to Trip instead.

"How are you doing, Mr. Tucker? If I may say so, you look a lot better than three days ago."

"I feel a lot better, too." Trip placed his fork on the now empty plate and leaned back in his chair. "The food here's fantastic."

She laughed. "I'll be sure to tell the kitchen staff. They'll mark the day red in their calendar, usually all they get is complaints."

_Well, it sure beats pizza from the garbage can_, Trip thought but did not say, merely smiling in response. He didn't want her to think that he was fishing for sympathy.

"Are our test results back from the lab yet?" he asked instead, remembering that she had mentioned last time that it was only going to take another day or two.

Dr. Lockhart sat down on the chair opposite to his. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," she said. "It's a good thing you're awake, Mr. Reed. I'll need your opinion on this, too."

She looked at them both before she continued. "The results are back, and they're negative. We've tested you for every drug we've encountered in addict patients, and it's obvious that you were on none of them. However..." She paused. "This isn't easy for me to explain."

Trip frowned. "Is there somethin' else wrong with us, doctor?" _Except for the obvious, I mean._

"Yes and no. As the lab assistant ran the tests, he found another substance in your blood, one he couldn't identify. In fact, none of us has ever seen it before, and even the specialist we asked didn't recognize it. The only thing she could tell is that it doesn't seem to be a chemical found in nature."

"So it's a synthetic substance?" Malcolm asked.

"We believe so. Although we have no idea where it came from. The specialist said she never saw anything remotely like it." Dr. Lockhart's face became very serious. "Do you have any idea, or suspicion, why there would be such a substance in your bodies? Anything at all?"

Malcolm shook his head, and Trip echoed the gesture. "Sorry doctor."

She sighed. "I didn't think so. Well..." Again, she hesitated. "I'm not sure if you're aware of the current political situation."

Trip frowned, thrown off track by the sudden non-sequitur. "Not really," he answered then. "Like I said, it was all gone when we woke up. We know about the energy crisis, but everythin' else..." He shrugged.

She nodded. "Yes, well, all you really need to know that we don't exactly live in stable times. The government is keeping a close eye on all public facilities, including hospitals. Which means that I've got to report all... unusual cases. Including yours."

Trip said up a little straighter. "What did they say?"

"The officials I talked to were very interested in your case." She paused, holding Trip's eyes. "They agree with me that there's a possibility that someone did this to you, gave you something to erase your memories."

"That's what I thought," Malcolm said quietly from the bed.

Dr. Lockhart nodded at him. "It's something we have to take into account. The government officials certainly intend to do so. And... they're worried that you might come across the wrong people if you go out there again. There's no telling what knowledge you had, or how much damage it could do if you recover your memories."

Trip was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "So they want us to stay here?"

She shook her head. "This isn't a long-stay ward. You'll be transferred as soon as Mr. Reed's feeling better, in two weeks at the latest."

Trip frowned, not sure whether he liked the sound of that statement. It seemed as if everything had been decided before Dr. Lockhart had even entered this room. "We don't really get a say in this, do we?" he asked, trying to sound neutral.

"I'm afraid not. I wish they had talked to you first, but that's not the way they do things. Still... I believe it's the best for your own safety. There may be people out there desperate to get the knowledge you had."

Trip exchanged a look with Malcolm. He could see that the other man, too, was less than happy about the way this was going - to all intents and purposes, they were going to be locked up. The doctor was right, however. Maybe the streets _were_ not safe, maybe there _were_ people looking for them... people with little or no sentimentalities.

"So..." Malcolm said. "Are they going to send us to prison? Or some sort of custody camp?"

Dr. Lockhart looked a little shocked. "No, of course not. You'll be committed to a psychiatric hospital, where the doctors will try and help you. You're not being punished, Mr. Reed."

She didn't quite meet his eyes, however, and Trip heard the unease in her tone only too clearly. It wasn't hard to guess that she was giving them the softened version of what the government officials had said, that their commitment to the hospital was more about defusing a potential threat than anything else.

"Did they say anything about how long they want us to stay there?" he asked, although he had a feeling that he already knew the answer. As he had expected, the doctor shook her head.

"No, I'm afraid not. I guess they want to keep an eye on you, though, since they expressly want you committed to a state-sponsored hospital."

Trip noticed her less-than-enthusiastic tone and raised his eyebrows. "That's bad news, I take it?"

She sighed. "Well, not really. You couldn't afford a private clinic, anyway. It's just that the state-sponsored facilities are... well, they're never as good as the private ones, of course."

A moment's silence ensued. Trip stared at the crumbs that were left on his plate, trying to think of something he could say or do that would make a difference. He knew that in a strictly rational sense, a psychiatric hospital was still better than the warehouse; hell, only the fact that they would have beds to sleep in should decide him for good. And maybe they would be safe there. Maybe the doctors would even find a way to help them. Still, though... no one had asked them to give their consent. And he was pretty sure that if Dr. Lockhart had not come here to talk to them, no one would have bothered to inform them about the impending transfer at all.

"I wouldn't worry too much if I were you." Dr. Lockhart finally broke the silence, obviously trying to sound upbeat. "You'll be in good hands, and you're staying together. I told them that we wouldn't sign the transfer permission otherwise."

Trip hadn't considered the possibility of being sent to different institutions so far, and only now realized that it might even seem like a good idea to the officials. Committing them to different hospitals would certainly make it harder to trace their whereabouts.

"Thanks, doctor," Malcolm said, and Trip saw his own relief reflected in the British man's eyes. Facing an indefinite stay in a mental asylum was depressing enough... facing it alone would be unbearable.

Dr. Lockhart seemed to have read his thoughts. She smiled. "You're welcome. And I'd like you to know that you can contact me anytime if there's something wrong. I'll give you my cellphone number before you leave."

"Thanks," Trip said and answered her smile, pretending that he hadn't noticed the worry in her tone.

_Optimism_, he thought, remembering Malcolm's remark of the previous night. _I guess it does go with the territory._

He had a feeling that he would be needing it... now more than ever.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you for your reviews, I really enjoy reading your take on things! As for our boys - break's over, time to rock!

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Chapter 8

Trip leaned back in his seat, staring at the scenery passing by the car window. The steady rain seemed to absorb all color, leaving the cars, the highway and even the fields beyond a featureless gray, as if nature itself had caught a serious case of depression. The dullness was also reflected on the faces of the people behind the steering wheels; not one of them was smiling, most of them staring ahead as if waiting for the road to finally come to an end.

Trip turned away and looked at Malcolm, who was half-asleep in the seat next to him. After twelve days of resting, his fever was gone, his lungs on the mend and he had even regained a little of the weight he had lost, but he was still not quite back to his old self as far as Trip could tell.═ With his memories beginning at some point about five weeks ago, he realized he didn't really know much about Malcolm's "old self" anyway.

Malcolm's head began to nod, and Trip carefully pulled him back so that he was leaning against the headrest of the seat.

"Gonna get a cramp in your neck, Mal," he said quietly. Malcolm did not quite wake up and only muttered something, his head now tilting to one side. Trip wondered if he should ask the orderly who accompanied their transport for a pillow, but dismissed the idea when he saw that the man had his eyes closed, earphones plugged in place and head nodding to an inaudible tune from his music player. The orderly, a young man called Mark Wright, hadn't been too enthusiastic about the job from the beginning, muttering that he could do without the five-hour drive. Trip was beginning to agree with him; after more than four hours, his back and bottom were aching in at least fourteen different places, and he could no longer seem to get comfortable, no matter how much he shifted and changed position. The driver, a large, elderly man, had flat-out ignored Mark's question if they could take a break, driving on as if his foot were glued to the pedal. It seemed that Mark was not the only one who wanted the trip to be over with.

Thinking that he might follow Malcolm's example and sleep a little, Trip leaned back and closed his eyes. With nothing to distract him, he could feel his anxiety beginning to return, sitting in the pit of his stomach like a small, hard ball. The feeling had accompanied him for almost two weeks now, ever since Dr. Lockhart had come to tell them about the strange substance in their bodies and their impending commitment to a psychiatric hospital.

_Psychiatric hospital_. The cynic in his mind sniggered at the word. _Let's not mince words here. You're going to the nuthouse, the funny farm. The place where people are sent when their marbles start rolling away. And I wouldn't be so sure that yours aren't starting to disappear as well._

The hard ball in his stomach was beginning to hurt, and Trip opened his eyes again. With his thoughts going in circles like this, he would never get to sleep. And he had to admit that he was afraid. Afraid that this was it; the beginning of the rest of his life. Living on the streets, he and Malcolm had been cold, hungry and miserable, but they had been free to come and go as they pleased. Even in the hospital, he had been asked before they had admitted him to the Psych Ward, and he had been free to decide whether he wanted to stay or not.

This was different, and it had started at the point when Dr. Lockhart had first mentioned the substance and the sudden interest of the government in their case. Now, he no longer felt free in any sense of the word, and technically speaking, he wasn't. Mark sitting there next to Malcolm was living proof of the fact that they were no longer trusted on their own.

The car pulled over to the right-hand lane, and Trip saw that they were heading for an exit. He was a little surprised that they would leave the highway here, in the middle of nowhere. He would have expected their destination to be a little closer to a city or settlement. Rain was still pouring down and what little light there was was starting to fade away, making it harder to determine where they were going.

After twenty minutes of driving along deserted country roads, the car turned into a byway, a smaller road lined with trees. When they passed the sign, Trip was surprised; he hadn't really expected to encounter anything out here. He squinted, and could only barely make out the words: "River Valley - Hospital for Mental Care".

"Mark." The driver spoke up for the first time since they had left the hospital premises, half turning his head to look at Wright, who was still tapping along to his music. "Mark. We're here."

Mark opened his eyes and pulled one of the plugs out of his ear. "What?"

"We are here," the driver repeated with exaggerated precision. "Now shut that thing off. You're not supposed to be listening to music anyway."

Mark rolled his eyes and hit the off-switch on his music player, then wrapped the earplugs around it and stuffed it into his bag.

"You two okay?" he asked with a glance at Trip and Malcolm, who was starting to wake up, yawning and blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

"Yeah," Trip said, but he wasn't really paying attention. The car had turned into a driveway, and now Trip could see the buildings that belonged to the road sign. There were several of them arranged around a large, paved yard, cars parked next to the entrances. Each building was at least four stories high, fronted with large glass windows and even a few balconies.

_No bars_, Trip noticed, and for some reason, it made the ball in his stomach ache a little less. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this didn't exactly look like a hellhole. They had trees here, even a few flowerbeds, he noticed as the car passed the gate. And there were no bars in front of the windows. It looked... okay. Yeah.

The driver parked the car in front of the largest building and shut off the engine, turning around to Mark.

"You gonna take them inside? I'll stay here if you don't mind."

"That's okay." Mark nodded at him, then looked at Trip and Malcolm. "Come on, guys."

They climbed out of the car into the rain, Trip carrying the bag with their blue jumpsuits, a few other spare clothes, and the toiletry items they had been given at the hospital

Malcolm was still looking a little mussed-up from sleeping, and pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders as they followed Mark to the door of the building.

"I hope they'll hurry up with the formalities," he said to Trip. "I'm bloody knackered."

Trip nodded, flexing his shoulders to work the kink out of his back. "Yeah, me too." It was true; now that Malcolm mentioned it, he realized just how tired he was.

Mark opened the door and led them into a large reception hall. The light was almost too bright after coming in out of the rain, and Trip blinked and held up a hand to shield his eyes. The hall was sparsely furnished, with only a few chairs and a reception desk. There was no one around, and Trip was beginning to wonder if Mark would call for someone when a door at the far side of the hall opened, and an elderly woman in a business-like jacket suit, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail, entered the room. She was followed by a man dressed in a white t-shirt and pants.

The woman smiled when she saw Mark, and came over to greet him. As she crossed the room, her eyes briefly flicked to Trip, then to Malcolm, but she said nothing to them and held out her hand for Mark to shake.

"I'm Dr. Cooke, the manager," she said. "I assume you're Mark Wright? A Dr. Lockhart called to let me know you were coming."

"Er, yeah." Mark smiled a little awkwardly as he took her hand. "That's right. And these two are - " he checked on the form he was holding - "Charles Tucker and Malcolm Reed. I guess Dr. Lockhart already told you about them."

"Indeed." Dr. Cooke's gray eyes came to rest on them and she nodded, acknowledging their presence for the first time. "Welcome to River Valley, gentlemen."

"Thanks," Trip replied, unsure what to make of her greeting. She was apparently trying to sound cordial, but there was no real warmth in her voice, or in her eyes. Malcolm only nodded in reply, burying his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

"Well..." Mark glanced at the door. "If, uh, if you don't need me... the other guy is waiting outside, so..."

"Certainly," Dr. Cooke said. "Thank you for taking them here."

"Uh, no problem. " He fidgeted with the form in his hands. "I'll need a signature on this."

"Of course." She took the form and quickly signed on the designated space, then gave it back to Mark. Trip felt suddenly irritated at being handed over like a piece of furniture, but quelled the feeling before it could take hold. This was merely a part of the normal procedure, and if Dr. Cooke seemed a little... indifferent, it was probably because she had gone through the same thing a thousand times before.

Mark nodded at her and grinned at Trip and Malcolm, already on his way to the door. "Good luck, guys."

"Bye," Trip said, but Mark had already disappeared into the rain. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and for the first time Trip noticed the electronic lock, which allowed free access from the outside but prevented anyone from leaving who didn't have a key.

"Very well," Dr. Cooke said, in a tone that called for immediate attention. Trip turned his head to find her assessing him with a cool, gray gaze. "You are Charles Tucker?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

She raised her eyebrows, obviously surprised by the form of address, and he found himself blushing. The doctor seemed like the sort of person who commanded a respectful approach, and the word had just slipped out. She didn't say anything about it, however, looking at Malcolm instead.

"And Malcolm Reed. Good. I'd like you to know a few things about the way this institution is run before Nurse Owens sees you through admission." She nodded at the man she had so far ignored. "We have a schedule for our patients that we'll expect you to follow, including mealtimes, therapy and group sessions. I should point out to you that our approach here at River Valley is focused on group therapy rather than individual treatment, meaning that you'll be spending most of your days in group activities. You'll also participate in our work program." She paused. "You'll notice that River Valley is very strict on security. It isn't needed most of the time, and I'm sure you understand that we can't allow you to leave the premises unaccompanied. I trust that you'll save us and yourselves the trouble.

"This is not a private institution, so we can't allow much in the way of special requests. We expect you to cooperate with us, and it goes without saying that you'll follow the nursing staff's orders at all times."

She looked from Trip to Malcolm. "Are there any questions?"

Trip shook his head and Malcolm did likewise, sneaking him a glance from the corner of his eye. Dr. Cooke seemed oblivious to the effect her little speech had had on her new patients.

"Good. Nurse Owens will take care of you and show you to your room."

Owens, a tall thin man with glasses, nodded and she turned to leave. Trip stared after her, clutching the handle of his bag. Part of him wanted to ask Owens for the next pay phone, call Dr. Lockhart and tell her to get them out of here now, before this got any worse. The words were almost out of his mouth when he caught himself.

_Get a grip. This is probably just what they do, "show them who's the boss" or something of the like. No need to freak out._

A minute of uncomfortable silence followed, until Owens shifted his feet. Unlike Cooke, he seemed aware of their reaction and the awkwardness of the moment.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Well then... I guess we should get going."

He grinned a little and somehow, his friendly tone and expression broke the tension Cooke had left behind. Trip nodded and even managed to find a smile of his own.

"Yeah, okay."

"This way, please." Owens motioned for them to follow him, pushing up his glasses that had slid down the bridge of his nose. It was a funny, harmless gesture, and Trip found that the feeling of impending doom brought on by Dr. Cooke's welcoming speech was fading. Maybe she was just the type of no-nonsense person who considered friendliness a waste of time, and wasn't even aware that she sounded more like a prison warden than a psychiatrist.

They followed Owens through a door and down a hallway. At the very end, there was a glass door with the words "Medical Ward" printed on it, which Owens opened by slipping an electronic key card into a slot on the wall. The room inside wasn't much different from the examination room back at the hospital, only that it was larger and equipped with two beds instead of one.

Owens closed the door, then nodded at the bag Trip was carrying.

"You can give me that now."

Trip, thinking of the blue overalls, didn't hand it over immediately. "We've got our clothes in there.

Owens shrugged. "Patients can't keep their own stuff as a rule. Too much of a risk. I'm sorry," he added. Trip hesitated, then reluctantly handed him the bag.

"Thanks." Owens smiled at him, obviously relieved that Trip wasn't going to make a fuss about it. "I'll keep it safe for you."

Secretly, Trip doubted that, but said nothing, not wanting to antagonize the nurse, who was obviously trying to be nice. Owens pointed at a door on the other side of the room.

"You can take a shower in there. Dr. Rowland will be here in a few minutes to examine you. Oh, and leave the door open," he added as an after-thought.

Malcolm frowned at that, and Trip was tempted to ask the nurse if he thought that they would drown each other or strangle themselves with the towels on a sudden spur of insanity. He bit back the words, though, and only nodded in reply. After all, he had washed in public before.

The shower room was designed for more than one person, and they undressed quickly, leaving their clothes on a chair next to the door. Trip adjusted the faucet until the water was almost too hot to be comfortable, then stood under the shower with his eyes closed. The dull ache in his back was beginning to subside, his muscles relaxing with the warmth. The water pooling around his feet was still warm enough to tingle on his skin, but he didn't mind, thinking that he could stay there forever. He had been cold too often for too long a time, and every time he stepped into a shower it was as if he had entered paradise.

After a while, the sound of wet feet on tiles made his eyes snap open, and he realized that he had almost fallen asleep standing up. Malcolm had left the shower and was drying off with one of the towels that were stacked on a wall shelf. Trip turned off the water and at the same time noticed that their clothes were gone from the chair. Owens must have removed them while they had showered.

Malcolm caught his eyes. "Don't think much of privacy, do they?"

Trip nodded. It was probably mere routine in a place like this, but it was beginning to annoy him all the same. He wasn't a raving lunatic with a hidden knife in his pocket, and he hated to be treated like one.

He was still drying off when Owens appeared in the door.

"Dr. Rowland's here," he said. "You done?"

"Could we have our clothes, please?" Trip asked, careful to keep his tone and phrasing neutral.

Owens shook his head. "You'll be given patient's garb after the examination. Now come on, the doctor's waiting."

_Patient's garb_. The word conjured the image of a black and white-striped prison overall before Trip's mental eye. He wrapped his towel around his waist, holding it together with one hand, and went back into the main room, followed by Malcolm who was holding on to his own towel.

An elderly man in a white coat was sorting through the equipment table, looking up as they entered. His eyebrows drew together when he saw them, and he gave Owens an impatient nod.

"Tell them to leave those in the bathroom. You know that, Mick."

It took Trip a moment to understand that the doctor was referring to their towels. He felt an angry heat rise to his face.

"We'll keep them if it's all the same to you," he said, no longer caring if he sounded hostile. As it seemed, the prison warden attitude wasn't restricted to Dr. Cooke, after all.

Dr. Rowland's eyes widened, but before he could say anything someone grabbed Trip's arm hard enough to bruise.

"Towels. Bathroom. What part of that didn't you understand?"

Before Trip could say or do anything in response, his towel was yanked from his grip. The man in the nurse uniform, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, let go of him again, and only now did Trip get a better look at his face. It was pale and narrow, sharp lines surrounding the mouth although the man could not have been older than forty. The thin lips twisted into a grin as he stepped away from Trip.

"No need to be shy, pretty boy," he said. "Don't got nothing to hide, do you?"

Trip felt himself blush and hated it, struggling against the urge to cover his private parts with his hands. The man seemed to know what he was thinking and smirked as he threw the towel over his shoulder.

"Paul," Owens said quietly. "Leave him alone."

The man in the nurse uniform ignored him and sauntered over to Malcolm, grabbing his towel as well.

"Cute," he remarked, and threw the two towels into the shower room. "I should take a picture."

"That's enough, Nurse Lendon," Dr. Rowland said shortly. "The medication for Mr. Andrews is over there. He's late as it is."

Lendon rolled his eyes. "Yeah yeah, I'm on my way."

He grabbed the bottle with pills from the counter and dropped it into his pocket, winking at Trip on his way to the door.

"See you later, boys."

Trip turned away and Lendon laughed, still chuckling as he closed the door. Malcolm stared after him, hands balled into fists, and only looked away when Owens cleared his throat.

"Don't mind him," he nodded his chin at the door. "He can be a little stupid sometimes."

_Wouldn't have guessed. Only that I'd call him a fucking asshole_. Trip pressed his lips together and said nothing in response.

"Well," Dr. Rowland cut in, "if you'd take a seat on the bed, now, I'd like to get this over with."

He looked at Malcolm, who slowly walked over to the examination table and sat down. The doctor fitted his stethoscope into his ears.

"Take a deep breath, Mr. ..."

"Reed."

"Mr. Reed. Take a deep breath now."

Malcolm obeyed and Trip turned away, leaning against the other bed and wrapping his arms around himself against the cold. The linoleum felt icy under his bare feet, and the small, hard ball in stomach was back, hurting worse than ever before.

He closed his eyes, and didn't open them again until the doctor called him for his turn.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

-hands Pineapple Crunchies and Pecan Pralines to her reviewers- Thank you, your feedback really brightens my day!

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Chapter 9

Trip followed Nurse Owens down the hallway, feeling tired and weary in body and soul. The only thing that really kept him going was the prospect of a bed to lie down on, where he could close his eyes and forget all about this shitty place.

The examination had been intrusive and humiliating, Dr. Rowland's gloved fingers poking and prodding them everywhere, instruments being shoved down their throats and up their asses so the doctor could tell if they were "clean". Ostensibly, the examination was supposed to be purely medical, but Trip was convinced that at least part of it had been about finding out whether they were trying to smuggle any dangerous objects into the place, to use against the nurses at an opportune moment. Thinking of Paul Lendon, Trip was beginning to find the idea rather appealing.

They hadn't been allowed to dress until they were both thoroughly examined, after which Owens had handed them a set of patient's clothing each. The garments weren't black and white as Trip had imagined, but consisted of a pale green t-shirt and matching pants as well as a pair of white sneakers with velcro instead of shoelaces.

After they had dressed, Rowland had pulled out two question sheets, instructing Owens to have them filled out and added to the medical files. After that, the doctor had disappeared without another word, and Owens had sat down to begin their psychological evaluation.

_Name?_

_Age?_

_Nationality?_

_Do you know why you're here?_

_Do you have any specific expectations of your stay?_

_Do you frequently experience nightmares? Feelings of anger? Anxiety? Violent impulses? Do you ever have the urge to strangle anyone, asshole nurses in particular?_

The evaluation sheet hadn't touched upon that last issue in particular, but Trip would have been hardly surprised if it had. It took Malcolm and him an hour each to wade through the multitude of seemingly random questions Owens threw at them, covering everything from their favorite food to their sexual orientation. The whole business was all the more frustrating since they couldn't give an answer to most of the queries; that was, an answer other that "I don't know, I can't remember." Sometimes, Trip had resorted to outright lying, telling Owens that his favorite food was meatloaf - not that he could remember having it, but it sounded good - and that he couldn't remember having nightmares in the close past.

Malcolm answered the questions with even less enthusiasm, shrugging most of the time or replying with the standard "I don't know." The only pause came when Owens asked Malcolm if he had any fears or phobias that he knew of. The British man had stared down at his hands, then, without raising his head, had said in a quiet voice, "I'm afraid of drowning."

He had looked up, almost defiantly, and at Trip's surprised look had added, "I feel uncomfortable when I'm close to large bodies of water. That's it."

Trip had said nothing, sensing that Malcolm wanted the subject to be left alone. He hadn't asked how Malcolm knew; it was probably one of those things, like the images of eerily familiar people and places that would come to him in dreams and sudden moments of recognition. It was not something that could be explained, and so he let the matter go.

Owens hadn't seemed too interested in any of their answers, and had finished the questionnaire in the same business-like manner as he had shown them to the showers. Watching the sheets disappear into their medical files, Trip had wondered if anyone was ever going to look at them again. Dr. Cooke's speech about group therapy rather than individual treatment had come back to his mind. Maybe these things were a mere formality, something that had to be done to complete the records. From what he had seen of this place so far, he wouldn't be surprised if it were so.

"Here we are," Owens said, returning Trip's thoughts to the present. They had arrived at a door made of frosted glass and framed with steel. "Ward 4" was printed on it in large white letters. Owens slipped his key card into another slot on the wall and the door opened silently, revealing a long, gloomy corridor. Doors lined it on either side; some of them were glass doors like the entrance, some were made of wood and equipped with a small observation window.

_Like a prison_, Trip's mind immediately supplied. _Welcome to the River Valley House of Correction._

Malcolm seemed to have similar thoughts; the expression on his face spoke volumes as they followed Owens down the corridor. One of the glass doors stood open and Owens switched on the light to let them take a look. Inside, there was a large table surrounded by plastic chairs, and in the back of the room a few armchairs and a sofa grouped around a television. The whole place exuded an air of gloom, and not only because it was dark and rainy outside. The chairs were worn as if they had served their purpose for many years, and it was obvious that the sofa and the armchairs had also seen better times. Missing curtains and a single halogen lamp rounded off the impression of indifference and neglect.

"The common room," Owens said. "You'll be having breakfast here and dinner, and you can come here during free time to read and watch TV. That is, if the TV works. I think it's broken," he added. Trip eyed the thing. From the looks of it, he would be surprised if it were still functioning. Well, maybe he would be able to do something about that. Give him something to do during free time if nothing else.

Owens motioned at them to follow him and they left the common room behind, walking down the corridor until the nurse stopped in front of one of the wooden doors. He slipped his card into the slot and waited until a green light flashed up, then pushed it open.

The room inside wasn't big; two beds on either side of the window and one next to the door with little room in between. In front of the window stood a small table and a chair. Except for the narrow locker next to each bed, there was no other furniture.

The lights were out, and so Trip didn't notice the man on the bed next to the door until Owens spoke to him.

"Your new roommates, Toby."

He turned the lights on, and now Trip could see the man, who was sitting cross-legged on his narrow bed. He wasn't tall, maybe Malcolm's height, his eyes bridged by dark eyebrows. He had brown, bushy hair, and the green patient's garb hung loosely off his wiry frame. He gave no answer to Owen's announcement, and his face remained stony as the nurse showed his roommates-to-be inside.

"These are Malcolm Reed and Charles Tucker," Owens introduced them and when the man remained silent, turned to Trip and Malcolm.

"This is Toby Reynolds. He's been here for a few years, so you can ask him if you have any questions."

_Somehow I doubt that he'd give us an answer_, Trip thought. Toby Reynolds was still staring at them with cool, indifferent eyes.

"Well..." Owens looked around as if trying to remember whether he had forgotten anything. "Wash kits and spare underwear are in your lockers. Bathroom's over there." He nodded at a door Trip hadn't noticed so far. "You'll be given a second set of clothing before you hand those in for cleaning; in four days at the latest, so please don't forget. I'll show you around the ward and the premises tomorrow. Breakfast's at seven, then you'll be starting with the work program. Anything else... oh right, it's me, Sam Moreno and Paul Lendon who are in charge of this ward. You can come to us anytime if there's a problem, okay?"

Trip nodded, careful to keep his face neutral. So the asshole was in charge of the ward. Great. Well, he could wait a long time until Trip would approach him about anything; he only hoped that Lendon would see the matter in the same light and leave them alone. Malcolm's lips had tightened at the news, and he avoided Owens' eyes as he muttered "thank you" in reply.

Owens nodded. "I'll leave you to it, then. See you tomorrow."

"Night," Trip said, and the nurse left, closing the door behind him. A soft mechanical click announced that the locking mechanism had been activated, then Owens' steps retreated down the corridor.

Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm. Back at the hospital, the doors to the patients' rooms had never been locked, and Trip doubted that it was standard procedure in mental health facilities to do so. Probably part of River Valley's "strict security protocol", and one more reason for him to hate this place and everything about it.

"I know what they're up to."

Toby Reynolds had spoken up, so suddenly that Trip jumped. He turned around and found himself confronted with a disdainful stare.

"I know what they're up to," the thin man repeated. "If they think I'd fall for that, they've got another think coming."

"What are they up to?" Trip asked before he could stop himself. In a way, he found himself unsettled by the man's remarks. It was one thing to know that there were people with mental disorders living in this place, but to be confronted with it face to face... well, he would be lying, saying that he had been prepared for this.

The corner of Toby's mouth twitched. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid," he said. "I know why you're here, so you can drop the act right away."

Malcolm regarded him calmly, arms crossed in front of his chest. "I'm not so sure you know all you pretend to know."

Trip stared at him. _All you pretend...?_

It seemed exactly the right thing to say, however. Toby's face came alive, and his next words tumbled out as if he had been holding them in for far too long.

"I know everything. I know about the drugs, I know about the cameras, I know about the invisible rays. Found out long time ago where they keep the generator that sends them out, so don't tell me it's not true. I know what they're doing here. Those rays, they're designed to keep everybody under control, under their thumb. But they're not getting me. Look."

He jumped off his bed and opened his locker. The walls, shelves, top and bottom were silvery and shining, every inch of it painstakingly covered with tin foil. Toby smiled proudly.

"They never realized that I found a way to neutralize the rays. The tin foil works like a shield, bounces them off and sends them back." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "If you like, I can fix your lockers as well. They won't get you then, I swear."

Trip blinked._ From "I know why you're here" to "they won't get you" in less than three minutes. You sure tuned in to that guy, Malcolm._

Malcolm inspected the tin foil with the air of an expert. "Looks good," he said then. "Good idea. Although I believe this should work for the entire room. I don't think we need to shield our lockers as well."

Toby looked disappointed. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Trip said, running a hand over the foil as if to examine it. _If Malcolm can do this..._ "It'd be dangerous to have more shielding in here. The rays would jump back and forth between our lockers and not get sent back. We'd eliminate our own protection."

Toby nodded, obviously impressed. "Makes sense," he said, closed his locker and returned to his bed.

"So... why are you in the loony bin?" he asked in a surprisingly normal tone of voice.

"We're..." Trip trailed off. _Because they want us out of sight and out of mind_ sounded dangerously like another theory about invisible rays. Eventually he settled for a more neutral way of putting it. "We've lost our memories."

Toby nodded. "Brainwashed," he said. "Happens all the time."

_You might even have a point there_, Trip thought but did not say.

"They say I'm schizophrenic," Toby continued conversationally, almost if he were amused by the idea. "Of course I'm not, but they're not going to let me go after I found out about their plans. Before you came, they had two spies stationed in here, to keep an eye on me. Pretended to know nothing about the rays. I never told them anything, of course, after I found out that they were here to observe me."

"How do you know we're not spies?" Malcolm asked, and Trip wasn't sure whether to be impressed or worried by the way Malcolm was picking up on the man's way of thinking.

Toby shrugged. "I don't. You might be. Although I don't think you would admit to knowing about the rays if you belonged to them. That "nurse" – " Trip heard the quotation marks drop into place around the word – "Owens, he's quite nice, actually. He pretends that there are no rays, of course, but he lets me keep my shielding as long I don't give him any trouble. Not all of them are bad people."

Trip regarded the small man in his ill-fitting institutional garb, and suddenly felt sorry for him. The idea of rays coming out of the walls might sound funny, but to Toby it was reality, and a frightening one, at that. Trip couldn't imagine what it must be like, living in fear every hour, every day of your life.

"I'm sure they're not," he answered quietly, sitting down on the bed to the left of the window. The springs creaked under him, and he shifted a little to get more comfortable. Malcolm took a seat on the other bed, picked up the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Trip frowned when he saw him suppress a shiver.

_They should have admitted him to the Medical Ward_, he thought, his anger returning as he remembered Rowland's indifferent shrug when he had told him that Malcolm was only just recovering from pneumonia.

"He seems fine to me," the doctor had said. "No reason why he shouldn't start the work program tomorrow."

The work program. They did mention it a lot, and Trip was beginning to suspect that it wasn't only about painting postcards, taking pottery classes or whatever activities they offered in places like this to keep the crazies occupied. Even Dr. Cooke had referred to it. Trip considered asking their new friend, but dismissed the idea when he saw the tired look on Malcolm's face. They would find out soon enough, anyway, and tonight, he – and Malcolm - could do without any more bad news.

He yawned, only half faking it. "I think I'm gonna go to bed," he announced. "I'm dead beat."

As he had hoped, Malcolm nodded. "Me too. If you don't mind..."

He looked at Toby, who shook his head. "Go ahead," he said. "I was going to turn in as well. Long day tomorrow," he added with a smile. It was surprising, Trip thought, how normal Toby seemed - if you ignored his ramblings about invisible rays and tin foil shielding, that was. Still, Trip had met people on the streets who were less civil and certainly not as intelligent as this man, who lived in a mental asylum and was locked into his room every night.

He pushed the thought aside and got up. "Okay if I use the bathroom first?" he asked the two others. Malcolm nodded, and Toby waved a hand for him to go ahead.

"Careful with the water," he said. "I wouldn't recommend drinking any of it."

"Why?" Trip asked, and regretted it a second after the word had left his mouth. Toby gave him a look of disbelief, as if he couldn't conceive of anyone being so naive.

"Drugs, of course. You're dealing with pros here, bud."

"Right," Trip said. _In that case, I'll be sure to have myself a glass. I could do with a good night's sleep._

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_He was back in the white room, only that this time he was not alone. Someone was there with him, someone who talked and talked and wouldn't leave him alone. He backed away to the far wall, pressing his palms against the cool tiles. The someone came closer, and an inexplicable panic rose in his mind._

_...not going to hurt you..._

_...leave me alone! No!_

_...it's necessary for you to understand that..._

_He was no longer listening, ducked under the other person's arm and ran, passed a doorway and ran on. White hallways, more white rooms, people yelling. His fist, pounding on a door panel. Steps behind him. He pounded harder, desperate. No! I've gotta get away, find Malcolm-_

_The panel broke and a crack appeared between the wall and the door frame. He slid his fingers inside and pulled, widening the gap. Behind it, there was another hallway, gray instead of white, and it was where he needed to go. His hands slipped and for the first time he noticed bright red blood welling out where pieces of the broken panel had pierced his skin. Never mind, I need to get out of here..._

_He pulled harder, ignoring the pain, and was halfway through the gap when someone grabbed his arm._

_...won't work... you'd do well to..._

_... No!_

_He screamed and kicked as he was dragged back down the hallway, blood from his hand dripping everywhere. The person of before was back, giving orders – hold him down, now – and he was pinned to the floor, hands gripping his arms and legs._

_... not going to hurt you..._

_A gloved hand descended on him, holding something, and he squirmed away, terrified._

_... No! Leave me alone!_

_... keep him still..._

_Coldness on his neck, a sudden sensation like a shock._

_...don't let go..._

_The person was watching him, waiting. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the cold began to spread from his neck, freezing him, encasing him in ice. He was immobilized, and could only watch as the person's face blurred and then faded away, leaving only darkness behind..._

Trip found himself sitting upright in bed, his heart racing in his chest. One of his hands found its way to his neck, and he touched the place that still tingled with coldness.

_A dream_, he told himself, _only a dream._ The white room, the hallway, the person... _only a nightmare._

Only that nightmares didn't feel that real, except... except if you were dreaming of things that had happened. _Memories._

Rain was pounding on the window outside, and he could hear soft, even breathing coming from the other beds. The room was dark and quiet.

_See? No hallways, no blood, no one's after you. It was a nightmare._

The images wouldn't fade, though, and Trip knew that he would not be able to go back to sleep... not right now, anyway. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, the blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders; their issued wardrobe had not contained any pajamas, so Malcolm and he had gone to bed in their underwear. The floor was icy, reminding him of the cold thing that had touched his neck. A needle? No... it had been more like a smooth metal stick. Weird. Not that it mattered, of course; dreams never made any sense, and God knew what his mind had dragged out of his subconscious to create this particular nightmare.

He went over to the window, which, like the windows in the common room, had no curtains or window sill. Trip raised a hand and rested it on the glass. The surface was smooth and cold, and too hard to be real glass. He tested it out by rapping his knuckles against it. As he had expected, the sound was dull and soft, nothing like the tinkle real glass would produce. Breakproof. The modern version of a barred window.

He leaned his forehead against it and stared out into the wind and the rain. With no lights behind him to produce a mirror effect, he could see fairly well what was out there, although it didn't make a lot of sense to him. Their room was obviously on the backside of the main building, a few floors above ground level as far as he could tell. There was another small yard behind the house, and, on the other side of the yard, rows and rows of elongated, windowless buildings. There had to be at least two dozen of them.

It was raining harder now, and the water running down the window was beginning to hinder his sight. Trip closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the rain hitting the window.

_Only a nightmare._

Or maybe he was finally starting to remember... although he was no longer sure he wanted to.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you for your kind reviews!

Chapter 10

_All I want is a cup of coffee._

Trip rubbed a hand over his forehead. There was a dull pain throbbing just over his left eyebrow, had been there since he had woken up, and it was growing worse by the minute.

_Lack of sleep'll do it to ya._

Even his thoughts were sluggish, he noticed as he trudged down the hallway after Malcolm and Toby. Wake-up call at six, a quick, rushed shower, then off to breakfast, and he had gotten three hours of sleep at the most. The dream, or rather the memory of it, had kept him awake, and when he had finally nodded off, his sleep had not been easy. He couldn't remember if there had been any other nightmares; certainly none as bad as the one about the white hallway and the cold thing on his neck. Still, he hadn't succeeded in getting much rest for the remainder of the night, and it was starting to make itself felt.

_Coffee. Now. I'll have it intravenously if necessary; anything to get the caffeine flowing._

Trip inwardly crossed his fingers that they did serve coffee at this place - preferably black, and preferably with enough caffeine to give him palpitations. He didn't care about the heart attack, as long as the stuff succeeded in waking him up.

"You the new guys?"

Trip looked up. The man who had addressed him was tall, at least a head taller than he, his green patient's garb barely covering his wrists. His face was dark, with high-set cheekbones and black eyes that had sunken deep into their sockets. Even so, they looked surprisingly awake and aware of everything that was going on.

"Yeah," Trip said. So far, he had only spared a few short glances at the other patients, who looked as tired as he felt. This man, however, seemed oblivious to the general sleepiness.

"I'm Chayton Cordier," he introduced himself.

Trip took the hand that was offered to him. "I'm Trip Tucker, and this is Malcolm Reed," he said. Chayton nodded and held out his hand to Malcolm, who shook it as well.

"Nice to meet you."

"Trip?" Toby repeated, frowning. "That some sort of nickname?"

Before Trip could say anything in response, someone clapped his shoulder from behind. "Sure it's a nickname. Or should I say it's a description of what you been doin' to get yourself into this place, Trippy boy?"

Lendon. He was grinning, obviously delighted with his own wit. Trip shrugged the nurse's hand off his shoulder and turned away.

_Just what I needed to make this day perfect._

"What is it?" Lendon asked. "Cat got your tongue? Or do you have a problem with basic manners?"

Trip closed his eyes, counting to ten until he turned around to look at the man. "I'm not the one with the problem," he said, careful to keep his voice calm. Lendon's grin faded.

"You be careful," he said quietly. "You just be careful. I ain't taking none of your shit, so you better watch out." He glared at Malcolm, Chayton and Toby, who had been watching the little exchange. "What are you looking at, huh? Get your asses to the common room, now!"

Toby obeyed immediately, looking scared. Chayton, though, gave Lendon a long look before he turned away and to Trip's surprise, the nurse let it go, merely waving an impatient hand for them to get moving.

As they entered the common room, most of the other patients were already assembled around the two tables. Two of them, a large man with red hair and an old Asian with horn-rimmed glasses, were handing out plates and cups from a trolley. On the table stood several baskets with toast and three large thermal pots, which Trip hoped contained the coffee that would cure his headache.

He sat down next to Malcolm and Toby, who ducked his head as Lendon passed by his chair. The nurse ignored him and went over to talk to another man in a nurse uniform, who was supervising the two men with the trolley. Lendon pointed at him and Malcolm, and the other nurse, a stocky man with short black hair, nodded.

"That's Sam Moreno," Chayton said. He had taken a seat next to Trip, looking ridiculously tall on the small plastic chair. He nodded at the stocky nurse. "He's not going to introduce himself to you, but he's okay. Friend of Owens'."

Trip nodded. "What's Lendon's problem?" he asked quietly.

Chayton helped himself to a piece of toast. "No idea. He hasn't been here for long. Tried picking on me too, but when I threatened to curse him, he stopped."

"Curse him?" Malcolm repeated. "How?"

Chayton's face was perfectly straight as he answered. "Curse of the Falcon."

Trip, thinking of Toby's invisible rays, tried to keep his voice neutral. "Really?"

Chayton raised an eyebrow at him. "You think I'm crazy?"

"Um, no." Trip was a little embarrassed at being seen through so easily. "I mean, it does sound a little... unusual..."

Chayton grinned. "I made it up. Lendon pretends he doesn't believe in it, but when he found the bloodstained feather in his locker, he called in sick the next day. After that, I never had any trouble with him. Even stopped calling me "Chief"."

Trip couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. Malcolm chuckled as well.

"Good idea," he said. "Maybe we should try something like that ourselves."

Trip grinned and wanted to add something when he saw the look on Toby's face. The man threw a quick glance at Lendon, then lowered his head even further and began to pluck his toast apart. Looking at Lendon, who was still talking to his colleague, then back at Toby with his nose almost touching his plate, Trip wondered if anything had happened between the two of them and if so, what it had been. It was obvious that their roommate was scared to death of Paul Lendon.

Trip decided against another joke at the nurse's expense and turned to Malcolm instead.

"Would you pass the coffee, please?"

Chayton laughed when Malcolm reached for one of the thermal pots. "Coffee? That's tea, peppermint tea, to be exact. We don't get coffee here except on special occasions. Tea and toast, that's it."

_Great. _Trip poured the tea into his cup and began to munch on his toast, which had never seen a toaster from the inside. He really shouldn't be complaining; after almost starving out there on the streets, this was still a feast. Still, remembering the sumptuous breakfast buffet back at the hospital, he couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.

While he ate, Chayton quietly introduced everyone who lived on Ward 4, which was home to fifteen patients, two of which were permanently confined to their rooms. Chayton only shrugged when Trip asked him why. "They're dangerous," he said. "One of them killed a fellow patient a year ago, the other one attacks everyone who goes near him. Only the doctors and Owens go in there. They know how to deal with him."

He moved on to present company, saying a word or two about every one of the men. Trip noticed that only few of them showed outer signs of mental instability, like old Parker Greene who constantly muttered into his cup or Jamel Hunter, who according to Chayton hadn't spoken to anyone in three years.

"He said shit when Toby slipped and hit him with the trolley," Chayton said. "That was about two years ago. After that… nothing. Not a word."

Most of their fellow patients, however, seemed as normal as they came… or at least not dangerously crazy. They were a quiet bunch, talking softly among each other or not at all, sneaking the occasional curious glance at the newcomers. So far, Chayton and Toby were the only ones who had spoken to them at all.

"Finish up, guys!" Sam Moreno called out. He nodded at the two patients who had handed out the dishes. "Frank, Akashi, you two clear the table, then join us downstairs. Hurry up, okay?"

The two men nodded, and, with the air of experienced waiters, began to whisk the plates and cups off the table, ignoring Parker Greene's protests that he wasn't done yet. Another patient, almost as old as Greene himself, helped him to his feet and led him over to the sofa in the back of the room.

"…all right, I'll get you another cup," Trip could hear him say as he helped Greene get comfortable.

"Guys, we're running late! Now come on!"

Trip turned around and found Sam Moreno frowning at him.

"You're the new ones… Tucker and Reed, right?"

"Yes," Malcolm said.

"Well, Chayton can take you under his wing today, show you how things work around here," Moreno said, and turned away to follow the patients, who were filing out of the room in groups of two or three. "Now get going, we've got to be at the greenhouses at seven. Hurry up."

"Greenhouses?" Malcolm asked when the nurse was gone. "What's he talking about?"

Chayton smiled, but there was little humor in the expression and a certain bitterness in his tone as he answered.

"You've heard about the work program, right?" he asked.

Malcolm nodded.

"Well," Chayton said. "The operative word is "work". Unless you're as old as Parker and his buddy, it's all part of your _therapy_."

The last word was heavy with irony, as if Chayton could not think of a more ridiculous term. Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm.

_I guess this is where they say "Welcome to River Valley"._

Somehow, he didn't feel amused by the thought at all.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, sitting on a truck which was rocking enough to make him slightly nauseous, Trip was beginning to understand what the work program was all about... and - taking a wild guess here - not only the program, but River Valley as an institution itself.

The greenhouses he had seen from their window last night stretched over more than a kilometer, rows and rows of windowless glass buildings that reflected the sunlight like dull mirrors. Each of them was equipped with solar cells on its roof, collecting the energy needed to keep the systems inside running.

_They certainly know how to save unnecessary expenses_, Trip thought as the truck rolled past another group of patients on their way into one of the houses. _Collect sunlight, cut down on the electric bill, collect patients, cut down on the salaries._

Because there were none. Chayton had only laughed when, back in the changing room, Trip had asked him if they were getting paid for their work.

"Paid? This is all part of their therapy program. You don't get paid for your health care, you're lucky that you don't have to pay them. Besides, what do you want to spend the money on? New straitjackets?"

He was right, of course. It wouldn't make any difference, not really.

Chayton had wanted to add something when Sam Moreno had suddenly been standing behind them. The nurse had given Chayton a long look, and this time it was Cordier who averted his eyes.

"I haven't heard a word of that," Moreno had said, quietly but with unmistakable meaning. "But you want to be careful, Cordier. And you-" he had looked at Trip and Malcolm, "-would do well to keep your opinions to yourselves. Understand?"

They had understood. After Moreno had left, they had slipped into their gray work overalls without exchanging another word, and had followed the other patients into the yard behind the building. Moreno was there, talking to Paul Lendon, and from the looks the nurses were giving them Trip guessed that Moreno was relating to Lendon what he had overheard in the changing room. Lendon, on seeing Trip, had grinned broadly and raised two fingers in a mock greeting. Trip had forced himself to ignore the man, pretending he had not seen, and had taken a look around instead. Patients and nurses were milling about in the yard, the latter directing the former to climb onto the waiting trucks that would take them to the greenhouses. No one seemed to doubt that this was the way things were supposed to be; it was just... routine. Every-day business.

The vehicle came to a jerky halt, causing everybody to bump against each other. The door of the driver's cab was slammed shut, and a moment later Moreno and Lendon appeared at the back of the truck.

"Come on, guys, get down there!" Moreno lowered the tailboard and waved for them to climb down. "You too, Jimmy!"

Jimmy, a skinny, dark-haired man with scared eyes, was sitting at the very end of the bench, as far away from the tailboard as possible. He had his fingers laced at the nape of his neck and muttered angry-sounding words, rocking back and forth along with them.

"Jimmy!"

The man ignored Moreno and continued rocking and muttering, apparently unaware that he was the only one left on the truck. Moreno sighed.

"Jimmy, don't be that way. I know you don't like cars, but you can't-"

"Goddamn cars!" Jimmy spat the word as if it were a curse. "They're dangerous! Kill millions of people every year! Did you know that? Did you know how dangerous they are?"

"I know, Jimmy. But it's okay, we're here now. You don't have to stay in the car any longer. Now come down, okay?"

The man had obviously not listened, rocking with even more vigor now. "Dangerous," he muttered. "They're dangerous, they kill people. Millions of people every year. I've seen the statistics."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Lendon went over to the truck and began to climb onto the back end. Jimmy turned his head. His eyes widened when he saw Lendon, and he moved even further away. "They're dangerous!" he said, beginning to sound panicky. "Dangerous!"

"Paul..." Moreno began, but Lendon cut him off.

"This idiot is playing us, Sam. He thinks we're stupid and don't see that he just wants to get out of work. Ain't that right, Jim-boy?"

Jimmy was trembling. "Dangerous," he whispered. "Cars are dangerous."

"Yeah, right." Lendon took Jimmy's arm and pulled him to his feet. "Now get a move on. Get down!"

"No!" Jimmy wrenched his arm out of Lendon's grip and threw himself back onto the bench. "No, they're dangerous, cars are dangerous, no-!"

"Shut up!" Lendon yelled.

Jimmy flinched as if someone had struck him and began to cry, his face hidden against the wall of the truck. Lendon grabbed his hair and yanked him off the bench, then kicked the man at his feet, once, twice. Jimmy sobbed louder every time Lendon's shoe connected with his ribs.

"Paul!" Moreno threw a quick glance around. "Come on, leave him alone!"

Lendon, his fist still in Jimmy's hair, turned around, his pale face reddened with anger. "This idiot's making fun of us, Sam! I'm not gonna listen to his shit every goddamn morning!"

As if to emphasize his point, he delivered another kick into Jimmy's stomach. Jimmy screamed and curled up as well as he could with Lendon holding on to his hair, his arms wrapped around his midsection.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Trip took a step forward. A large hand closed around his arm. He turned his head and saw Chayton, who was shaking his head.

"Don't," he said very quietly, and Trip noticed that his other hand was holding on to Malcolm's shoulder. "Don't. You'll only make it worse. And Lendon has it in for you anyway."

In the meantime, Lendon had let go of Jimmy, pushing him towards tail end. Sobbing, the man climbed to his feet, snot and tears running down his thin face. He raised a hand to wipe them off and awkwardly lowered himself off the truck. Once his feet had found the ground, he stood there for a second, then swayed and collapsed in a quivering heap.

Lendon rolled his eyes as he jumped down as well. "Oh come on, don't give me that." He nodded at Chayton. "You, help him. He's not skipping work again. We've had enough of that the last few weeks."

Chayton gave Lendon a look of disgust, then knelt down next to Jimmy and laid an arm around the man's trembling shoulders, talking quietly. Lendon pretended not to notice and nodded at the rest of them.

"What are you waiting for? Get going!"

They obeyed, slowly, avoiding Lendon's eyes. Trip seemed to have hesitated a moment too long, and the nurse took a step towards him.

"You got somethin' to say, Trippy boy?"

Trip could see the anticipation in Lendon's eyes, the challenge: _Come on, say something. Let's see you play the rebel._

He held the nurse's eyes for another moment, then turned away. He wasn't going to play into the man's hands by rising to the bait. As he followed the rest of the group towards the greenhouse, he heard Sam Moreno's quiet voice behind him:

"Was that really necessary, Paul? The state he's in now, he won't calm down all day. You know how he gets."

"I don't care," Lendon answered. "I'm not gonna let this idiot manipulate everybody. The rest of them are working, and he can do jus' the same."

Moreno sighed but said nothing in response, walking past the group of patients until he had reached the door of the greenhouse. He entered a combination of digits on the panel that was embedded in the wall next to the entrance and the door slid aside, revealing a sight that made Trip momentarily forget about Lendon.

The inside of the building was as wide and spacious as a cathedral, only that the glass walls allowed the sunlight to filter inside. The air was slightly misty and damp from the constant spray of water that came out of the irrigation pipes on the ceiling, and it was warm; coming in out of the cold gray morning, Trip felt as if he had stepped into a sunny spring day. What really caught his attention, however, were the trees; rows and rows of small apple trees whose branches were weighed down with large, red fruits. It was the most beautiful thing he had seen in River Valley so far; or, for that matter, the most beautiful thing he could ever remember seeing.

"Unbelievable," Malcolm said quietly next to him, and Trip could see that he was impressed as well. A moment later, he heard Moreno's voice behind them.

"Tucker, Reed, get over here!"

They turned around and found that the rest of the patients had lined up in front of a small shed next to the entrance. Trip looked around for Jimmy and found him sitting on a small bench to one side, arms tightly wrapped around his upper body. He was rocking back and forth and muttering to himself in a frantic tone of voice. Lendon seemed to have disappeared.

In the meantime, Moreno had unlocked the shed and waved the first two men inside. "Come on, everybody grab a bag and then get going!"

The bags were about the size of bath towels and could be worn over the shoulder with a strap. Trip slipped his on and was about to follow the other patients when Moreno called out again.

"Tucker, Reed, you stay here for a moment!" He waved them over. "Either of you ever done this before?"

They shook their heads. _Not that we would remember if we had_, Trip added in thought.

Moreno nodded. "Well, here's the deal. You pick the apples one at a time and put them _carefully_ into your bag. Our customers expect high quality, so it won't do if the apples have bruises all over. If you notice that an apple has a soft place or a brown spot or something of the like, just drop it – _don't_ leave it on the tree. We'll pick those up later. When your bag is full, come back here to empty it. Oh, and by the way, the apples are not for you guys to eat. If I catch you doing that, there's going to be trouble. Understood?"

They nodded and Moreno waved at them to get going. "Well, then get started."

They went over to the row of trees where the rest of the group had started working. Some of the other men picked the apples so quickly that their hands seemed to blur, while others took their time, slowly and methodically transferring the fruits from the branches into their bags. They all seemed to have done this many times before, going about their work like professional pickers.

Choosing the two trees next to Chayton's, they started to work. The tall man grinned at them, picking apples off branches no one else would have reached without a stepladder.

"Having fun yet?" he asked.

Trip moved to another branch closer to Chayton so that he could talk quietly without being overheard.

"What the hell is this, some sort of apple plantation?"

Chayton smirked. "Never heard of the River Valley Organic Food Farm?"

Trip shook his head. Malcolm, who had started picking off Trip's tree so that he could listen to the conversation, frowned.

"Organic food, like...?"

"Untreated, never touched by any chemicals, and hand-picked by trained professionals," Chayton said, plucking another apple off its branch. "River Valley's the number one healthfood brand. They make tons of money selling this stuff to people who can afford it."

"And it's only apples?" Trip wanted to know.

Chayton shook his head. "No, they sell all sorts of fruits and vegetables. The greenhouse next to this one has pears, the next one peaches and so on. You'll see it when we get assigned there."

"And the patients do all the work?" Malcolm asked.

Chayton nodded. "Yep," he said matter-of-factly.

"But doesn't anybody care that it's illegal?"

"Well, it's not exactly illegal," Chayton replied. "This is a state-sponsored facility, so they're allowed to put us on a work program. It's supposed to be light work and half-days, but it's not as if anybody cares to check. The guys from Social Services come by once a year and spend an hour in Dr. Cooke's office, then go off again and spend the next two months on Maui or someplace else that is nice and expensive. Far as I know, they've never even been to the greenhouses."

Trip had stopped picking. "That's..."

"Life?" Chayton offered. "It's the way things work around here."

"But..." Malcolm began, but was interrupted by Lendon, who had suddenly appeared right next to them.

"Less talk, more action, guys," he said. "Come on, Reed, you can flirt with your boyfriend later. Now get back to work. You too, pretty boy."

He gave Trip a light shove towards the tree, his hand lingering on Trip's back a second too long. Trip shrugged him off and began to pick again, biting back an angry reply.

_If he keeps this up much longer..._

Lendon chuckled, casually plucked an apple off the tree and took a bite, then dropped it onto the ground.

"Tastes like shit anyway," he said, with a side glance at Trip who pretended not to have heard. The nurse grinned and gave the apple a kick that sent it flying, then sauntered off along the row of trees.

"What a bloody arsehole," Malcolm muttered under his breath, dropping an apple into his bag with more force than necessary. Trip only nodded. His stomach was burning with anger, and he could feel his headache returning, throbbing behind his forehead like a live thing.

_Bloody asshole, all right._

Taking a deep breath, he continued picking, and tried to ignore the pain and the feeling that this was not over by a long shot.

TBC...

Please hit the button and let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

Thank you for your kind reviews!

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 11

Trip paused to wipe the sweat off his brow, then bent back down and buried his spade in the earth. They were planting lettuce today - 5000 seedlings fresh from the hothouse that had to be in the ground by tonight. By now, Trip was beginning to believe that he had never done anything else – make a hole, place a seedling in the middle, water it, fill the hole with earth, move ten centimeters to the right, repeat. Once his crate was empty, he would go and get another one from the seemingly inexhaustible supply at the front of the greenhouse. It was mind-numbing work and after five of hours of kneeling in the dirt, Trip might have believed it if someone had told him that Hell was a large lettuce patch.

Malcolm was working opposite to him, filling row after row with plants. For lack of anything else to amuse himself with, Trip had started his own, private lettuce competition, based on the rule that he had to stay at least two plants in front of Malcolm. Unfortunately, after ten minutes of playing, Malcolm had noticed, and after that was much harder to beat. For half an hour, the competition was fought with vigor and dedication, Trip starting off with a lead of two plants while Malcolm did his best to catch up. For a while, it was a tight struggle for first place, then, right after Malcolm had managed to overtake Trip, his crate was empty and he had to go and get himself a new one. Sportsmanlike, Trip interrupted his own work to wait until Malcolm was back, and was consequently slapped on the back of the head by Lendon, who told him to get his lazy ass moving. After that, the competition had lost much of its appeal and they returned to working in silence, digging hole after hole until the spade began to blur before Trip's eyes.

Lunch time came and went, but nobody told them to take a break and so they didn't. No one complained; they all knew that complaining would only result in the whole group having to work overtime. Owens might have allowed them a break, but he was working night shifts this week and would not be on duty for another five hours. And the other two nurses would not grant them a moment's rest, not with so many unfinished crates left.

"Come on, guys, don't fall asleep there!"

Trip glanced up and saw Moreno, his round face flushed, calling out to the working men while he handed new crates to Toby and Frank.

"If we're not finished with these by tonight, they'll put us on work detail. Hurry up a little, okay?"

Moreno's announcement was met with groans and sudden stirs of renewed activity. Work detail meant that they would lose their one free afternoon a week, which happened more often than not. In the weeks he and Malcolm had spent in River Valley, Trip could only remember one occasion on which they had actually had their allotted afternoon off. Granted, half of the free time they had to spend in "group therapy" (which meant sitting in a circle and boring one another to tears, talking about things like "goals in life" or "secret fears"), but it was still okay because it was a change. The rest of the time it was the same shit, different day, seven days a week: getting up at six, tea and toast for breakfast, then off to the greenhouses where they would work without a break until noon. During lunch break – if there was one – they would gather in front of the greenhouse where the nurses handed out sandwiches and water in plastic cups (or, if anyone looked particularly tired, a can of soda to boost the blood sugar). After half an hour, it was back to work, and no break until their day ended at 6.30 in the evening – if no one had earned the group another half-hour by dawdling or mouthing off to one of the nurses. Jimmy was particularly gifted at that, falling asleep over his work only to be woken five minutes later by an irate Lendon, who would unfailingly punish the entire group by making them stay longer.

"Come on, hurry up!" Moreno called again, and Trip wished someone would shut the guy up, preferably by ramming a bunch of lettuce plants down his throat. After digging holes for what seemed like forever, it didn't take much to put his nerves on edge, and Moreno's constant bleating wasn't helping.

"We'd be done a lot faster if those two would just grab a spade and get down on their knees to help," Malcolm muttered under his breath. Trip grinned a little. It seemed that he wasn't the only one who was thoroughly fed up with holes and lettuce.

Toby passed them carrying his new crate, and Trip followed him with his eyes until the small man had reached his own patch further back in the greenhouse. Toby's shoulders were slumped and he moved like a man twice his age, pausing to press a hand into the small of his back before he knelt back down. It was nothing new; Toby was always tired, and would sometimes nod off over his dinner with exhaustion. It was the meds doing it to him; like many of the patients, Toby was issued his dose of drugs every evening, swallowing them under the watchful eyes of the nurses, who would inspect his mouth afterwards to make sure he wasn't hiding the pills under his tongue. Toby never did and so, like many others, he had dark circles under his eyes and often was barely able to walk straight when the work day was finally over. In the face of Toby's daily struggle, Trip hoped that the doctors would never get any bright ideas about starting him and Malcolm on any of those drugs. So far, no one had paid them any attention, except for forcing them to participate in the work program, and Trip wanted it to stay that way. He didn't trust the doctors any more than he trusted anyone else at River Valley.

"If you move any slower, Reynolds, you're gonna fall asleep. Now get a move on!"

Trip looked up again. Lendon was standing next to Toby, who cowered over his row of lettuce plants and worked faster than he had all day. He didn't turn around or raise his head, but Trip could see that his forehead was gleaming with sweat.

Lendon grinned and half-heartedly kicked the crate so that it bumped against Toby's thigh. "See, that's what I'm talkin' about. Now keep it up, or... you know what."

Trip traded a look with Malcolm, who had watched the little exchange with a dark expression on his face. A week ago, Toby had finally confided to them why he was so scared of Lendon, and after that, Trip had found himself hating the nurse even more.

"He's got a remote that controls the rays," Toby had told them in a whisper, throwing nervous looks over his shoulder even though they had been alone in their room after lock-up. "He showed it to me. It has an antenna to direct the rays anywhere he wants, and he can increase and decrease the dosage. And..." Toby had gotten visibly paler as he continued. "He said that if I get on his nerves or don't do my work, he'll zap me with rays until my skin starts to rot off. He said he's done it before, and the guy lived no more than a week after he turned the full blast on him."

Nothing Trip or Malcolm had said had convinced Toby that Lendon was making it up – "He _showed_ it to me!" he had answered to whatever argument they brought forward – and so Lendon continued to scare the living daylight out of Toby right in front of their noses.

"Got a problem over there, Trippy boy?"

Lendon had noticed his look and was now coming over in his usual, sauntering way. Trip deliberately met his eyes to let the man know that he wasn't scared, then turned back to his work. This was getting to be a routine between him and Lendon, and Trip had soon found out that the nurse hated to be ignored.

Lendon's steps drew closer, and a moment later a dirty sneaker entered Trip's field of vision, stepping down mere centimeters from his hand and crushing two lettuce plants in the process.

"I asked you a question, Tucker."

"I don't have a problem," Trip replied, outwardly calm. "Now can I get on with my work?"

Lendon turned his heel on the crushed seedlings, then slapped Trip on the back of the head, harder than before. "You better be careful, punk. I ain't taking none of your shit."

Malcolm raised his head. "You know, if you keep destroying the plants, it will take us even longer until we're done. To be frank, I don't really see where the sense is in that."

Trip wanted to shake his head at Malcolm, signaling him to keep quiet, but damage had already been done. Lendon turned away from him and walked across the patch over to where Malcolm was kneeling, not caring that he was ruining even more plants in the process. Once there, he grabbed Malcolm's hair and pulled on it as he spoke.

"If I'm interested in your opinion, Lord Malcolm, which ain't gonna happen in this life, then I'll ask. Otherwise, I want you to keep your snotty British mouth shut! Understand?"

He tightened his grip when Malcolm refused to answer. "I said, understand?"

"Listen, why don't you leave him alone?" Trip asked, laying his spade aside. "You-"

Before he could say something that would have earned them an hour of extra work, at the very least, he was interrupted by a loud voice from behind.

"No! I won't!"

Trip turned around and saw Anthony Morris, a huge, black-haired man with a barrel chest, standing next to his patch with his hands balled to orange-sized fists. He was hulking over Moreno, who was visibly struggling not to take a step back.

"Listen, Anthony, you need to calm down. It's okay-"

"No!" Anthony stomped his foot and threw his spade to the ground, missing Moreno's foot by mere centimeters. "I'm tired, and I didn't get my sandwich for lunch! I always have a sandwich for lunch! I'm hungry!"

"Morris!" Lendon let go of Malcolm and began to walk towards Anthony, who flinched at the sound of his voice. "You stop right this instant-"

"Paul!" Moreno held up his hands. "Let me handle this, okay?"

He turned back to Anthony, whose lower lip had started to tremble when Lendon had yelled at him.

"Anthony, I know you're tired, but we can't take a break right now. You know that we have to finish work first-"

"I don't care about work!" Anthony stomped his foot again, tears forming in his eyes. "I want my sandwich! I wanna take a nap!"

"Later, Anthony, okay?" Moreno smiled, although it turned out a little pinched – which wasn't surprising, given that 240 pounds of enraged patient were towering over him. "Later we'll all go back and have dinner, okay? It's ravioli today. You like ravioli, don't you?"

"I don't want ravioli, I want my sandwich! Sandwich!" Tears began to run down Anthony's reddened face. "I always have a sandwich for lunch!"

"Okay, that's it." Lendon resumed his stride, raising his voice as he approached the crying man. "Morris, if you don't stop right now, you're gonna miss a lot more than your goddamn sandwich, y'hear me? Now take that – " He picked up the spade Anthony had thrown away and thrust it into the man's hand – "and get your fat ass back to work! Move it!"

He gave Anthony a shove that was obviously supposed to send him to his knees. Anthony, however, only stumbled a little and then, all of a sudden, whirled around and pushed Lendon, hard enough so that the nurse lost his balance and fell backwards into one of the lettuce patches.

"Leave me 'lone!" Anthony swung the spade around and would have crushed Moreno's skull if the nurse hadn't ducked fast enough. "I want my sandwich! You all leave me 'lone!"

"Anthony, don't!" Moreno yelled, but the man was no longer listening. Sobbing loud enough to drown out the nurses' cries, he turned around and began to run away, taking large, lumbering steps that crushed dozens of lettuce plants. Frank, who was in his way, was pushed aside by one large hand and landed in the dirt. Anthony never even looked at him and stumbled on, sobbing, face smeared with dirt and tears.

"You all leave me 'lone!"

He came to a halt, trembling and swaying, and looked around with wild, frightened eyes. Then, as if he had suddenly realized where he wanted to go, he turned and began to charge towards Malcolm, his spade raised high in the air.

"Leave me _'lone_!"

"Careful, Malcolm!" Trip jumped up, but Malcolm was quicker. In one smooth movement, he got to his feet and a split second before Anthony could bury the spade in his brain, grabbed hold of the man's arm. A moment later, Anthony was airborne, sailing over Malcolm's head as if gravity had suddenly lost its grip on him. Malcolm did a quick turn of the wrist, flipping Anthony over in mid-air, and then the large man crashed down, letting out a cry of pain as he hit the ground.

A moment of silence followed. Anthony lay where he had fallen, sobbing and clutching his left arm, while everybody's eyes were fixed on Malcolm. Malcolm, from the look in his face, was in shock. He stared at the fallen man, then looked up at Trip and opened his mouth as if to say something. Nothing came out, though, and Malcolm raised and lowered his shoulders in a helpless shrug.

Moreno was the first to break the silence. "It's okay," he said a little shakily. "It's okay, guys. Stay right where you are."

Neither Anthony nor Malcolm moved, and Moreno slowly began to walk towards them, still talking in a soothing voice as if he were trying to calm down two scared and dangerous animals.

"It's okay, guys, there's nothing to worry about. Just stay where you are, it's gonna be okay."

He continued talking until he had finally reached the two men. Anthony was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, crying quietly and muttering unintelligible words. Moreno only gave him a quick glance before he turned to Malcolm.

"It's okay," he said, and laid both hands on Malcolm's shoulders, carefully, as if the touch might be enough to make Malcolm go berserk. "It's okay, Malcolm. Why don't you sit down for a moment, it's going to be okay."

Malcolm complied, his eyes still on Anthony as he awkwardly lowered himself to the ground. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "I didn't mean to... is he going to be all right?"

Moreno had knelt down next to Malcolm, his hands still firmly on the Englishman's shoulders. "Paul, could you check on Anthony?"

Lendon, who had picked himself up from the lettuce patch, brushed a few crumbs of earth off his uniform, then went over to crouch down next to the fallen man.

"Looks like Reed broke his arm," he said, his expression torn between amusement and mild annoyance as he looked up. "You know karate, Lord Malcolm? Wouldn't have guessed."

_Me either_, Trip added in thought. He still couldn't quite believe what Malcolm had done, how expertly he had blocked the attack of a man almost twice his size.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm repeated. "I didn't mean to hurt him..."

"It's okay," Moreno said, fishing something out of his pocket and holding it concealed behind his back. "Don't you worry yourself. Paul, could you call Jake and tell him that we need him to send someone over?"

"Sure," Lendon replied, getting to his feet.

"Malcolm," Moreno said, hand wrapped around Malcolm's right upper arm, "I need you to stay still there for a moment, okay? Don't worry, it's going to be-"

"What are you doing?" Malcolm asked, trying to pull away. Moreno tightened his grip and, so suddenly that Malcolm never had a chance to react, buried the needle of a syringe in Malcolm's arm. Malcolm let out a cry of pain and surprise and began to struggle, but Moreno only gripped him harder and pushed the plunger home.

"No, what are you d-"

In the middle of his sentence, Malcolm suddenly broke off. His eyes began to droop and his head lolled to one side, as if his muscles had suddenly been drained of all strength.

"No..." he whispered, and then his body went limp.

"What did you give him?" Trip jumped up.

Moreno carefully lowered Malcolm's unconscious body to the ground. "It's okay, Tucker, your friend's going to be fine."

"It's not okay!" Trip noticed that he had raised his voice, and forced himself to continue in a calmer tone. "He was only defendin' himself. You can't just-"

"Trip."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around, half expecting to find a syringe descending on his arm. Instead he found Chayton looking at him.

"Don't," the other man said quietly.

"But-"

"They gave him Haldol," Chayton said. "It's not going to hurt him. It's a sedative."

"But he wasn't trying to hurt anyone!"

"I know."

Trip turned around again. Anthony had stopped sobbing and was lying there with his head tilted to one side, obviously out cold. Moreno laid the second syringe aside, then pulled Anthony's shirt over his head and began to tie it into a sling for the broken arm.

"What are you looking at?" Lendon had returned from the intercom and frowned at the men, who were standing there with their spades dangling from their hands, staring. "Get back to work, show's over!"

Trip didn't move, and felt Chayton's fingers tighten on his arm. "Come on, let's go."

"What's gonna happen to them?"

Chayton glanced at the two unconscious figures on the ground. "Someone will drive them back to the main building and take Anthony to the Medical Ward so Dr. Rowland can take care of his arm."

"And Malcolm?" Trip asked quietly.

Chayton looked away. "He'll be put into seclusion."

Trip opened his mouth, wanting to ask Chayton exactly what that was supposed to mean, when Lendon came towards them and clapped his hands.

"Move it there! You too, Trippy boy. Don't start crying, now, you'll get your chance to kiss him better soon enough. Now get yourself back to work."

Trip gritted his teeth and turned away, pretending that he hadn't heard. Much as he wanted to punch the man, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. He would only be the next one knocked out and dragged away to seclusion, whatever it was.

Chayton half-led, half-pulled him away from the nurse and picked up the spade Trip had dropped.

"There. Come on, let's get started."

Trip stared at the tool in his hand, then back at Malcolm who was still lying on the ground like a bundle of clothes someone had dropped there. Another second, and the Englishman would have been dead, a spade just like this one shattering his skull and crushing his brain. Malcolm had not needed a second, however, had reacted as quickly and calmly as if he had practized the move a thousand times before. And it had looked... professional.

Trip knelt down and began to unearth the seedlings Lendon had crushed earlier. His hands were still shaking a little, though he could not tell whether it was from shock or anger. _Seclusion. _Malcolm would be taken to an isolated room, he guessed, where he would be left until he had slept off the drug.

_Not that he would have needed it in the first place._ _But then, maybe it's some sort of punishment. _He pulled out one of the broken plants and threw it away. _Make that probably. Why else knock him out when he's not violent or dangerous_?

He plunged the spade back into the earth with more force than necessary. Malcolm had been defending himself, and they knew it. Knew it, but didn't care – if one of the loonies freaks out, knock him out and then haul him off to seclusion. The circumstances didn't matter, nor did the fact that Malcolm had never been violent before. He was a patient, and patients weren't supposed to have a mind of their own. And if they did – well, the drugs would take care of that.

"If you make that any deeper, they're going to think you're trying to dig yourself out of here."

Trip raised his head and saw Chayton on the opposite side of the patch, finishing the row Malcolm had been working on earlier. The tall man pointed with his spade at Trip's own row.

"The hole."

Trip looked down. The hole he had been digging was large enough to hold an entire head of lettuce, let alone one of the tiny seedlings.

"Oh. Thanks."

"He's going to be okay, you know," Chayton said as he bent back down over his work. "Most of us have been in seclusion at some point. It's not unusual."

"Yeah," Trip said softly. "I bet it isn't."

TBC...

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	12. Chapter 12

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Chapter 12

_He was in a white room, its walls smooth and cold like marble. The light in the room was bright and unpleasant, hurting his eyes and draining the color out of his skin so that his hands looked unnaturally pale, like the hands of a corpse, gliding over the cold, smooth walls. There was no exit, not even a crack that would have suggested the existence of an opening, but even though he knew that it was in vain, he kept searching. It was the only thing he could do. Sometimes, he heard a disembodied voice talking to him, its tone becoming more urgent the longer it spoke, but he ignored it. He understood the words, but they didn't make any sense to him, and he knew that it would be dangerous to listen. There had to be a way he could get out of here, a way to escape-_

Malcolm awoke with a start, gasping like a drowning man who has finally managed to come up for a lungful of air. His throat seemed too tight, and for a moment he saw nothing but a bright glare, not unlike the light he had seen in his dream. Briefly, he wasn't even sure if it had been a dream – the room had seemed so real, its walls so cold and firm. Impenetrable. And his fear had been real, too. He could even remember the itch of sweat on his skin.

Slowly, diminishing with every breath that he took, the brightness in front of his eyes faded away, and his heart began to slow down. He coughed, and found that his throat was no longer too tight, but so dry that it almost hurt him to breathe. His mouth tasted of ashes and dirt.

Malcolm blinked, and his surroundings gradually became clear, turning from blurred shapes into sharp outlines. Not that they made much sense to him – he was lying on his back on a bed of sorts, a quite uncomfortable one, with a hard mattress and no pillows and covers whatsoever. Over his head, there was a bright halogen tube embedded in the ceiling, and across the room he could make out a metal door with a small window in the middle. The window was criss-crossed by a wire mesh. There was no other furniture and no window, not even a switch to turn out the light.

Squinting in the bright halogen glare, he tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes, and froze when he found that he couldn't move. He glanced down at his hands.

_Bloody hell._

There were leather restraints on both his wrists, tight enough so that he couldn't even wiggle his arms back and forth. Malcolm tried to move his feet, and found that they had been tied down as well.

"Bloody hell."

This time, he said it aloud, and the sound of his own voice helped to contain the growing panic. He wanted to struggle, fight the bonds someone had so expertly tied him down with, but he knew that it would be of no use. He would only end up hurting himself.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to lie perfectly still. After a while, his breathing slowed down, and he found that he no longer felt as if he were going to lose it. Opening his eyes again, he raised his head as far as he could and glanced down at himself. Someone had removed his work overall and shoes, leaving him with only his gray standard underpants. The restraints circling his wrists and ankles were padded on the inside, the leather on the outside scratched and worn, as if some former occupant of this room had rubbed them against the bedside for hours. Malcolm strained his head to see where they had been fastened to the bedframe, but as he had expected, the straps ran all the way under the mattress. Someone had made sure that he would not be able to free himself.

He laid his head back down and turned his eyes away from the glare of the lamp. He could still feel the place where the needle had pierced his skin, could still remember how he had suddenly felt as if he were floating, the voices and faces around him becoming blurry and then fading away. Before that, Anthony had cried... and Lendon had said something about a broken arm. About him breaking Anthony's arm. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone, had acted on sheer impulse when Anthony had come towards him. And he had no idea how he had done it. His body had moved as if it had a will of its own, his hands knowing exactly how and where they had to take hold, his feet bracing themselves seemingly on their own. And it had worked. He had blocked the attack, and for a short, strange second before Anthony had started to sob, he had felt something like a wild satisfaction. Malcolm remembered the moment very clearly; he had stood there, shocked and startled, and at the same time something within himself had triumphed at the thing he had done. He had stopped a potentially dangerous man from doing further harm. Somehow, it had felt very right.

Then, of course, the nurses had come down on him, and Malcolm realized that they had not seen him protecting the rest of the group from a possible danger. What they had seen were two violent patients, one of whom could obviously throw someone over his head and break his arm if he felt like it. He probably shouldn't be surprised to find himself restrained and in isolation after what he had done.

_But I'm not out of my mind. I was defending myself... defending the others. Trip._

That was what it came down to, really. He could not let anything happen to Trip... somehow, he knew that it was his responsibility to protect the other man. Why that would be so, he did not know; Trip was capable and smart, and could very well stand up for himself, if need be. That changed nothing about his responsibility, however. Malcolm knew that it was his job to look out for Trip. And today, he had done his job right. Even if it had earned him a stay in the padded room... or River Valley's equivalent of it.

There was a noise from the door, and Malcolm turned his head. Maybe they had decided that he had "calmed down" again and were coming to get him out. At least that was what he hoped.

When the door opened, Malcolm knew immediately that this was not about letting him out of here. Lendon took his time, closed the door behind him and slid a panel across the small observation window so that the room was cut off from view. Only then did he turn around.

"Back with the living, Reed? About time, you've been lazing around in here all evening."

Malcolm tried his best to sound neutral. "When can I get out of here?"

Lendon grinned, sauntering a little closer. "Bored already?"

Malcolm said nothing and only looked at him.

"We-ell," the nurse drawled the word, pretending to consider, "let's see... you attacked a fellow patient, injuring him in the process, you obstructed the nursing staff and had to be sedated-"

"I didn't "obstruct" anyone!" Malcolm took a deep breath, then continued in a calmer tone: "You saw what happened. He could have killed someone-"

"Oh, and of course it's your job to prevent that." Lendon smirked, and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Of course Sam and I woulda been lost without Malcolm Reed savin' our asses."

He lit a cigarette and began to smoke, leaning against the wall next to the cot. Malcolm had to strain his head to look at him, and was fairly certain that this was the intended effect.

"You know..." Lendon exhaled a cloud of smoke, then slowly turned his head to look down at Malcolm. "I've seen lotsa guys like you and that pretty boy Trip. You come here and think you're so smart, so much better'n the rest of them..." He inserted the cigarette between his lips for another drag. "You ain't, though. You're no better than Anthony or, say, Toby. Someone decided to have you locked up in here, and it's probably the best thing that could've happened to you. You're losers. Crazy."

He walked over to the bed, slowly, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. Malcolm turned his eyes away and stared at the ceiling. The look on Lendon's face was beginning to unsettle him and he didn't want the nurse to know, although Lendon would probably notice all the same. He seemed too experienced in this kind of thing, had seen the same expression on too many faces not to know.

The nurse came to a halt next to the cot and stood there for a while, smoking as he looked down at Malcolm. Then he suddenly laughed.

"You know, I don't know why you two insist on makin' yourselves miserable. It's not as if you're getting out of here. Your buddy Chayton... he was a druggie. Came here droolin' and with the inside of his nose half eaten away by all the coke he'd snorted. That was six years ago. He's clean now, or at least as clean as one like him can get, but he's not getting out of here. And you know what? It's a good thing he don't."

Lendon breathed out another cloud of smoke, and Malcolm resisted the urge to turn his head away.

"Ain't no need for people like him, or you, to hang around on the streets and live off welfare money or stuff you've stolen somewhere. At least we're putting you to work here. Don't you think that's a good thing, Lord Malcolm?"

Malcolm said nothing. It wasn't as if Lendon really expected an answer.

"I guess you don't. But that doesn't really matter, does it, 'cause it ain't you calling the shots in here. And you'd better get that through to your buddy, too. One day I'll have him in here, and he'd better be a little more cooperative then. There's some things that can really hurt if you don't cooperate."

Malcolm was beginning to feel sick. He gritted his teeth, fighting against the urge to scream all the insults that were running through his head, and forced himself not to look at the man.

"You think I wouldn't do it," Lendon said, and suddenly his voice was very close to Malcolm's ear. Malcolm could smell the smoke on the man's breath as he continued in a quiet voice. "Don't you?"

Malcolm said nothing, and Lendon slapped him, hard.

"Don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Malcolm said between his teeth.

Lendon laughed. "Right. How 'bout I show you? Would you like that, Lord Malcolm?"

He patted Malcolm's stomach and Malcolm recoiled from the touch, except that he couldn't really move away. Anger and panic were mingling in his chest, and he wished more than anything else that he could have lashed out at the man.

Lendon chuckled and took another drag from his cigarette, then blew the smoke into Malcolm's face. "Naw," he said, playfully trailing his hand down Malcolm's stomach before he finally pulled it back. It was all Malcolm could do not to shudder. "Naw, I don't think so. Not today. It's not as if we're in a hurry, right?"

Malcolm said nothing and kept his eyes averted, forcing himself to breathe.

_It's not going to happen, relax, he's going to leave you alone, any time now he's going to get bored and leave you alone..._

"Although I would have loved to see your buddy's face."

Malcolm heard Lendon exhale again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw that the cigarette was almost gone, except for the small, glowing end. Lendon took it out of his mouth, contemplated it for a moment, then, with sudden force, brought it down on Malcolm's bare stomach.

The pain was sharp and took Malcolm's breath away. He gasped, and Lendon turned his forefinger on the stub so that it crumbled and the glowing ash burned Malcolm's skin. Malcolm struggled and tried to shake it off, only to be slapped again for his efforts, this time with the back of Lendon's hand. He felt warm blood trickle out of his nose.

"Well," Lendon said, getting to his feet. "Maybe you need to stay in here for a while yet. Look what you did, hurt yourself thrashing around... we can't have you back in the ward in such a state. Better wait until you're feeling better."

He flicked the now cool cigarette stub off Malcolm's stomach, and Malcolm knew without looking that a blister was forming where the hot ash had touched his skin. He looked away. His eyes were burning with anger and humiliation, and he hated the fact that Lendon could see it.

The nurse laughed. "I'll see you later, Lord Malcolm. Sweet dreams."

Malcolm kept his face turned the other way when Lendon left. The burned skin on his stomach stung and his face had begun to throb where Lendon's knuckles had connected with his cheekbone. He could not remember ever feeling like this before, trembling with anger and shame at what had happened. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the physical sensations; painful as they were, they were a distraction, and the last thing he wanted to think about now was what Lendon had almost done. Or had implied he would do.

After a while, the trembling and the pain subsided, but Malcolm never moved and or opened his eyes. How ridiculous of him to think that he could protect Trip. Obviously, he could not even protect himself.

TBC…

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	13. Chapter 13

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Chapter 13

"Almost done, Toby."

Trip adjusted the small piece of wire that served him as pliers, wrench and screwdriver, then gave it a twist that fastened the last bolt in place.

"Now all we need is the battery." He glanced up and smiled at their roommate, who was sitting across from him at the table. "You got it?"

"Yes." Hands that were shaking with excitement brought out a crumpled-up handkerchief, and laid it on the table almost reverently. "I got one just like you said."

He opened the bundle. Inside, there was a XXL Duracell Superpower battery, a shining silver cylinder the size of Trip's little finger. Toby regarded it as if it were the crown jewels.

"Are you sure it's the right one?"

"Absolutely," Trip said, took the battery and slipped it into the designated compartment. For a second or two, nothing happened. Then, tiny lamps lit up and a humming filled the room, so soft it could be heard only if one listened very closely.

Toby stared at the thing on the table, and suddenly his eyes filled with tears.

Trip frowned. "Toby? You okay?"

"Yeah," Toby said in a slightly shaky voice, and turned away to wipe his eyes. "Yeah. It's just that... I can't believe this is happening. The... the rays... they've been giving me headaches, and nausea, and all sorts of things... I've lain awake so many times, thinking about the things the radiation was doing to my brain... and... to think that I won't have to worry about all that anymore..."

Trip almost cringed at the expression of pure and simple gratitude on the man's face. He cleared his throat and nodded at the object on the table between them.

"Well, I hope it'll work."

_And I also hope you'll never realize that this thing can no more absorb or deflect dangerous radiation than it could when it was still a TV remote._

He had scrounged the thing from the common room a few days ago, after he had decided to built the first, honest-to-God ray neutralizer the world had ever seen. He had used whatever materials he and Malcolm had come across – pieces of wire he had found in the yard, small screws Malcolm had "borrowed" from the broken radio in the nurses' lounge, a cartridge out of a pen that sort of looked like an antenna. All of this, and a few hours of tinkering and tweaking, and what had once been an old TV remote control looked like a strange, futuristic device designed to catch and neutralize the dangerous radiation Toby was so afraid of.

"It will work," Toby said, and from the look on his face, he had never believed anything more in his life. "With these what-do-you-call-'ems absorbing the rays..."

"You mean the photoconductive elements," Trip supplied. "Yeah, they should work okay. They'll swallow the rays and phase-convert them into harmless Theta radiation, then eject them again through the distributor. With this thing hidden in your bed, the radiation won't be able to touch you."

Toby nodded, obviously impressed, and again, Trip felt a little guilty as he regarded the "ray neutralizer" on the table. He knew that this was a life-changing event for their roommate, and yet he couldn't help feeling that he was playing a rather mean practical joke on Toby. Malcolm had only shrugged when Trip had voiced his doubts, pointing out that if they wanted to help, this was the only way to do it.

"It's not as if he's going to find out," he had said. Trip had not been so sure, but now it turned out that Malcolm had been right. Toby didn't doubt that the "ray neutralizer" was real, and never even asked where they had gotten the necessary parts or why Trip would know how to build such a device. As down-to-earth as Toby was in most things, he wasn't even remotely in touch with reality where his radiation theory was concerned, and would believe anything if it was wrapped up in big enough words.

"Trip?"

Trip raised his head and found that Toby was looking at him, his neutralizer clutched firmly to his chest.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." Toby's voice became slightly unsteady as he continued. "You don't know what this means to me."

Trip couldn't quite bring himself to meet the man's eyes. "That's okay," he said, getting up from his chair so he wouldn't have to look at Toby's face. "You're welcome."

He went over to his bed and found that Malcolm was looking at him from across the room. The Englishman's eyes were serious, almost somber, and when Toby wasn't looking, he gave Trip a small, quiet nod.

_This is no joke_, Malcolm's eyes said, and Trip realized that Malcolm wanted to let him know that he appreciated what Trip was doing. He nodded back and sat down on his bed. It wasn't a joke, and it helped that Malcolm understood that.

"Well, I'm going to turn in," Toby said, obviously unaware of the silent exchange that had taken place between his two roommates. He held up the neutralizer. "With this under my pillow, I'm sure I'll finally catch a good night's sleep."

Trip forced himself to smile. "That's great."

Toby nodded and began to pull his shirt over his head. "Thanks again, guys. You're the best."

"Don't mention it," Malcolm said quietly, and Trip saw that he, too, couldn't quite find it within himself to look Toby in the eyes.

Later, Trip lay in his bed with his hands folded behind his head, listening to the soft, even breathing coming from Toby's bed. There was no matching sound from Malcolm's side of the room, only the occasional rustling of blankets that suggested that Malcolm was still awake. In the dark, all Trip could see were the outlines of a figure lying on its side, face turned away from the room, but he was fairly sure that if he touched Malcolm's shoulder now, his hands would encounter the tense muscles of a man who could no longer bring himself to relax. Briefly, Trip considered doing just that – going over there and sitting down on the edge of Malcolm's bed, coaxing the other man into sharing whatever was bothering him. He didn't, though. In the two days since Malcolm had come back from seclusion – in the early morning hours, accompanied by Nurse Owens who had been working the night shift – he had not once mentioned the incident that had brought it all on, or how he had spent his time in isolation. When Trip had asked him about it, Malcolm had only shrugged. "There's nothing to talk about," had been his curt reply to any of Trip's questions. He had kept his eyes averted, though, and Trip could count on one hand the times Malcolm had smiled since he had come back. Something had definitely happened during those eight hours, and Trip didn't have to be Sigmund Freud to know that whatever it was, it had unsettled his friend.

With a small sigh, he turned his head and looked out of the window. The sky outside was dark, large clouds hiding the stars from view. It had been raining for almost two weeks in a row now, and the daily trip to the greenhouses had become a struggle through puddles and pools of muddy rain water. Once, the truck had gotten stuck, its wheels roaring and splashing water everywhere without moving the vehicle even an inch. They had climbed down and stood up to their calves in the mud, pushing the truck from behind while Moreno had done his best to put the gas pedal through the floor. Finally, the truck had rolled out of the puddle with a loud slurping sound, and the nurses had decided to drive back to main building so everyone could warm themselves up in the common room.

So far, the unsuspected morning off had been the only positive side effect of the lousy weather. For the most part, the constant rain made people edgy and irritable, not to mention the fact that almost everybody on Ward 4 had caught a cold. All the same, it was back to the greenhouses every day, and Trip found himself beginning to despise the sight of the huge glass constructions that were slowly but surely immersing in an ocean of mud. It didn't help that Lendon found it greatly amusing to "accidently" trip people up whenever there was a puddle in sight. Hardly a day passed without one of them finding themselves face-down in a pool of dirty water.

As if someone up there had read his thoughts, rain began to drum on the window, and Trip turned away, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. His hands still carried a faint scent of the peaches he had harvested today, and for some reason he found the smell relaxing. He allowed his thoughts to drift, the lingering aroma of the fruits filling his head. Shortly before he fell asleep, the image of a large, sunny kitchen appeared in his mind. A diminutive woman with graying hair set a bowl of ripe and fragrant peaches on the table, laughing as several small, grubby hands made an immediate grab for the fruits. "Give one to Lizzy, Trip," she said. "Don't you be holdin' out on your sister." A small girl with blond pigtails stuck out her tongue at him, then took a large bite from the peach he had given her. Fruit juice dribbled all over her chin.

"Yeah," she said. "Don't you be holdin' out on me, Trip."

Her tongue darted out of her mouth to lick off the juice, and everything about her seemed painfully familiar to him, from her blond hair down to her old white sneakers. He tried to hold on to the image, long enough so he would remember what it was and where it came from, but it faded away as quickly as it had come, and when he awoke on the following morning, it was gone as if it had never been there in the first place.

* * *

Rain was still pouring down, pounding on the breakproof windows and chilling the air as they made their way down the hallway. Trip shivered and wished he had had time to get dressed before Owens had called them. The thin pajamas weren't exactly keeping out the cold.

He glanced at the other, equally pajama-clad men who were walking down the hallway alongside him, yawning and scratching their backs, each of them carrying a bundle of clothes, wash kit and towel. Their eyes were still puffy from sleeping, and there was hardly anyone who looked as if he wouldn't have benefited from another forty or fifty winks. The only exception was Toby, who seemed well-rested and all but bounced down the hall.

Owens, none too awake himself, grinned at the small man. "What's with the good mood, Toby? You win the lottery or something?"

Toby answered with a wide smile of his own. "Even better," he said and winked at Trip, who couldn't help but smile back at him. Toby seemed like a different person this morning, cheerful and confident. Trip found it hard to believe that an old TV remote and a few assembled wires could have wrought such a change in a person's behavior, but he couldn't deny that he had the living proof right in front of his eyes.

Owens raised his eyebrows at them, but to Trip's relief he didn't ask any questions. Although he was sure that the nurse would not take the neutralizer away from Toby, it was better if none of the staff knew. Trip didn't like to think of what would happen if Lendon found out.

Owens opened the door to the shower room and waved them inside. "Breakfast's in 15 minutes, people, okay? I don't want us to be late!"

His announcement was met by sleepy nods and murmured affirmations, although no one actually picked up their pace as they trudged past the nurse into the large, tiled room. The bathrooms adjoining the dormitories had no shower facilities, and so they came here every morning to perform their daily ablutions. There was little privacy in using a communal shower, but Trip had to admit that some of their fellow patients did need supervision. Anthony, for instance, frequently tried to eat the soap, and could only be stopped by a nurse assuring him that it was just a little while until breakfast.

Trip went over to the bench on the far side of the room where he left his clothes and wash kit, then stripped down and stepped under one of the shower heads, all of which were arranged several feet apart alongside the walls of the room. He turned on the faucet and closed his eyes when the warm water came down on him. In the background, he could hear the quiet voices of the other men and the splashing as the faucets were opened one by one.

"Hurry up, guys!" Owens called out from the other side of the room. "Ten minutes!"

Trip sighed. Just once, he thought, he would like to shower with no one counting down the time. Squinting through the water that was running over his face, he looked around for a bar of soap and saw that Malcolm, a few showers away, had just finished with his.

"Malcolm!" he called out, and the Englishman raised his head. "Could you..."

He broke off. On Malcolm's bare stomach, there was an angry red spot about the size of a peanut, which Malcolm quickly covered with his hand when he noticed Trip's look. Trip hesitated, then went over to the shower next to Malcolm's – who, as he now realized, had chosen a spot well away from the rest of the men.

"Malcolm," he said quietly.

Malcolm continued washing as if he hadn't heard, turning his back to Trip.

"Is that a burn?" Trip asked.

"It's nothing," Malcolm said, turned off the faucet and left to get his clothes. Trip finished his own shower in a hurry, then followed Malcolm to the bench.

"It's not nothin'. Someone did this to you."

Malcolm ignored him, picked up his shirt and began to pull it over his head. In the bright light of the ceiling lamps, Trip saw that there was a slight swelling on the Englishman's left cheek which he hadn't noticed the day before. Or maybe it had only now started to bruise.

He reached out to touch it, but Malcolm pulled his head away. "Don't."

"They hit you, didn't they."

Malcolm looked away.

"Who did it, Malcolm?"

"I'm fine, Trip," Malcolm said, eyes still averted. "Let it go, will you?"

"No, I won't." Trip ignored the exasperated look his answer earned him. "What did they do to you?"

"'They' did nothing." Malcolm sighed. "Lendon wanted me know who's in charge, slapped me twice and put out his cigarette on my stomach. That's all that happened, really."

Trip searched the other man's face until he was sure that Malcolm was telling the truth. The thought of Lendon beating Malcolm and torturing him with a burning cigarette was enough to make him furious, but there was still the possibility that some of the things Lendon had done had left no outward traces.

"I'm all right, Trip," Malcolm said quietly. "Really. Just don't..."

He trailed off when Owens came walking towards them.

"Come on, guys, you can chat during breakfast," the nurse called. "Get dressed, now, we're running late."

"You should go see the doctor," Trip said when Owens was out of hearing range again. "That burn's gotta be treated."

Malcolm shook his head. "I told you, I'm fine."

"Malcolm..."

Trip broke off when the door on the other end of the room opened. He turned around and saw Lendon, coffee cup in hand, strolling into the room, his nurse uniform crumpled as if it had been pulled out from under a bed. The sight of the nurse's indifferent face brought a surge of anger. Trip glanced at Malcolm. The smaller man seemed intent on tying the drawstrings on his pants, but Trip didn't miss the twitch in the corner of his mouth, or the way Malcolm avoided looking at the nurse. Clearly, he wasn't as "fine" as he had claimed to be.

Owens sighed when he caught sight of his colleague. "Paul," he said. "You're late. Shift started 30 minutes ago."

Lendon took a sip from his coffee. "Yeah, I know. My alarm clock didn't go off on time."

"Well, maybe if you set it on time, it'd go off on time. This is the third time this week you've been late."

"Loosen up, will ya? It's not as if I missed anything." Lendon gave Owens a bored look. "Don't see why we gotta start at six, anyway. They can get out of bed by themselves all right."

Owens seemed to consider saying something, then sighed and turned away. "Whatever."

"You know," Lendon continued, his eyes passing lazily over the showers and sinks, "this place is a mess. Time someone cleaned it up."

Owens answered without turning around. "You're welcome to take care of it yourself."

Lendon ignored the obvious resentment in Owen's tone. "Actually, I think that's what I'm gonna do." He dumped the rest of his coffee on the floor, missing Frank's foot by an inch. "Let's see..." He looked from one patient to another, pretending to consider. Trip knew what was coming and at the same time crossed his fingers that this time, Lendon would single out someone else. He wasn't sure if he would be able to keep his mouth shut, after seeing the red blister on Malcolm's stomach.

"Trippy boy!" Lendon said and grinned as if he had only just now spotted him among the others. "And Lord Malcolm. Perfect. Finish dressing, guys, we got a lot of work ahead of us."

He raised his eyebrows at Trip in what was obviously supposed to be a playful manner. Owens gave his colleague a look of barely hidden disgust.

"Paul, I don't think that's such a good idea."

Lendon took on an innocent expression. "You told me yourself that this place needs cleanin'."

"I think you should take someone else. Frank and Chayton, for example."

Lendon shook his head and grinned. "Naw, I don't think so. These two will do just fine. I'm sure Trippy boy here don't mind if things get a little dirty, right?"

Owens looked as if he wanted to punch Lendon; a feeling Trip could sympathize with. "You're pathetic, Paul. You really are."

The smile vanished from Lendon's face in an instant. "And you're forgettin' who you're talking to. I only need to say one word, and you're outta here. So better watch out."

Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm. It didn't seem to be an empty threat on Lendon's side, judging by his sneer and the look of helpless anger on Owen's face. Trip wondered who it was Lendon intended to have a word with. He didn't seem like a person to have influential connections.

Owens, on the other hand, seemed to know very well who Lendon was talking about. He said nothing more and waved at the rest of the men to get going. "Make sure they get breakfast before you take them down to the greenhouses. Don't take too long."

Lendon smiled. "Oh, we won't, don't worry."

Trip watched as the others filed out of the room, Chayton giving him a brief look before he followed Owens.

_Be careful_, Chayton's eyes seemed to say. _You don't want to do anything stupid._

_Tell me something I don't know_. Trip steeled himself. From the expression on Lendon's face, he was looking forward to this, and Trip knew that it would not be easy not to rise to the nurse's baits. Lendon knew too well how to get him going.

"Well, well," the nurse said, clapping his hands like an idiot. "Don't just stand there, guys. Buckets are in the cabinet."

Malcolm ignored the nurse's malignant tone and wordlessly went over to the cupboard Lendon had pointed out. Trip followed him. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this case, and if they continued to ignore Lendon's taunts, there was little the nurse could do about it.

Malcolm opened the cupboard and took out two plastic buckets and two cleaning cloths, along with a bottle of cleanser. Trip noticed that there were no mops.

"Guess you'll have to get down on your hands and knees," Lendon said as if he had read Trip's mind. "At least that way you won't miss any spots."

Trip refused to look at the grin on Lendon's face and took the bucket Malcolm handed him. They went over to the sink and filled the buckets with hot water, then added a small amount of cleanser which bubbled and filled the room with an acid smell. Trip glanced at the bottle and wondered if this stuff was even supposed to be used without protection gear. Not that it mattered; Lendon wouldn't let them wear gloves even if they had any.

"You start over there, Reed," Lendon said, pointing to the door end of the room. "Trippy can do this side, and then you can meet in the middle. Hurry up, you heard Mick. We don't have all day."

Malcolm glanced past the nurse and gave Trip a look much like the one Chayton had given him earlier_. Just don't do anything stupid._

_Okay, okay_. Trip turned and went over to the corner that was the farthest away from Lendon, where he set down his bucket. Best to get over with this as quickly as possible. As he immersed the cloth in the water, a cloud of acid wafted into his face, and his eyes began to burn. Head averted, he wrung out the cloth and then knelt down, slapping the wet fabric onto the tiles. Lendon had been right about one thing; the room was dirty, and the puddle of water that formed around the cloth immediately turned gray. Trip did his best to transfer most of the dirt into the bucket, but had to mop the same spot three times before it was even remotely clean. Sighing, he moved on to the next square meter of tiles, resigning to the fact that they would be in here most of the day if their scrubbing was to have any effect. Obviously, this place hadn't seen a mop in a very long time.

For the next fifteen or twenty minutes, no one spoke, the two of them scrubbing in silence while Lendon leaned against one of the sinks and played some sort of game on a small computer, uttering the occasional swear when one of his opponents managed to score a hit. Trip's hands and eyes were burning from the cleanser, and there was an irritating itch in the back of his throat that grew worse with every breath he took. He considered going over to the sinks to get a drink of water, but dismissed the idea after a look at Lendon. The nurse would pounce on any "provocation" on his part, and Trip wasn't going to play into his hands. He did his best to keep his face turned away from the bucket – there was nothing he could do about his hands – and, after another ten minutes, got up and carried it over to the sinks to change the water.

Keeping an eye on Lendon, Trip poured the dirty water into the sink, then rinsed the bucket and filled it again, taking as long as possible. The nurse never looked up, and Trip lifted the bucket out of the sink without adding any cleanser and returned to where he had left off. Without the acid substance, the feeling of the warm water on his hands was almost pleasant, and he resumed scrubbing, secretly triumphant that he had gotten past Lendon's "watchful" eyes. Hopefully, Malcolm would have the same idea and act on it before the cleanser started to eat away his skin.

"Didn't you forget somethin', Trippy boy?"

_Damn._

Trip looked up and saw that Lendon had abandoned his computer game. The nurse grinned and held up the bottle of cleanser as he walked towards him.

"I'm not sure if you're familiar with the concept of cleaning agents, but it's quite simple really. Don't worry, I'll show you." He held the bottle in front of Trip's face and read the label, drawing out the words with mocking slowness. "'Sa-afe for tiles, chro-ome and fibergla-ass. Cle-eeans off soap scum a-and milde-ew.' You with me, Trippy boy?"

"It also says 'use eye protection'," Trip replied, tempted to drag out the words like Lendon had done. From the other side of the room, Malcolm shook his head at him in warning, but Trip wasn't so sure whether saying nothing would have been the smarter option in this case.

Lendon's lips twitched. "Well, what do you say. The country boy can read. I bet Momma's real proud of you, ain't she? Or would that be your sister? Well, in your case I guess they're one and the same."

Trip didn't remember if he even had a family, but it changed nothing about the anger flaring up in him at Lendon's words. For a moment, he considered jumping up and punching the man right into his grinning face, even though he knew that this was exactly what Lendon wanted him to do. Taking a deep breath, Trip said nothing and reached for his cleaning cloth instead. A second later, Lendon had snatched it out of his hand.

"I haven't finished yet," he said. "Look right here, Trippy. You open the bottle – " he unscrewed the lid – "then put some of the nice yellow stuff into the water. It's not that hard, really."

Lendon upended the bottle and shook it. Yellow liquid spurted out, part of it hitting the cloth he was holding, part of it landing in the bucket. It was a lot more than Trip had used the first time, and the onslaught of acid almost took his breath away. He coughed and blinked furiously to get rid of the burning in his eyes. Somewhere above his head, Lendon laughed. He dropped the cloth on the floor in front of Trip and pushed it towards him with the tip of his dirty sneaker.

"Get back to work, Trippy."

He waited until Trip had picked up the cloth, then nodded in mock praise.

"That's a good boy."

He started to walk away, then, suddenly, Trip felt a hand on his ass and heard Lendon's voice close to his ear.

"Any more fucking around, and you'll go to seclusion, Tucker. And believe me, you don't want that."

Trip sharply pulled away and began get to his feet, all caution forgotten. "You-"

He was interrupted by the sound of a bucket hitting the floor. Lendon and he both turned their heads at the same time. Malcolm's bucket was rolling over the tiles, its dirty contents spreading over the area he had cleaned so far.

"Reed!" Lendon began to walk towards Malcolm, almost slipping on the wet floor. "You goddamn idiot!"

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said quickly as he tried to keep the growing puddle at bay with his cloth. "My hand slipped..."

"Oh shut up!" Lendon grabbed Malcolm's wet cloth and slapped it across the Englishman's face. "Now go and get some more of these to clean it up. Move!"

As Malcolm got up, Lendon gave him a kick in the leg that sent him stumbling. Trip took a deep breath when Malcolm suddenly turned his head and threw him a hard, almost angry look. Trip closed his mouth again. Malcolm's bucket was lying in a far corner of the room, and there was really no way it could have gotten there... unless someone had given it a swift hard kick.

_God, Malcolm._

Trip watched as Malcolm began to soak up the water with a bunch of cloths he had gotten from the cupboard, Lendon standing next to him and telling him how many different kinds of idiot he was. As he resumed his own work, Trip silently repeated Lendon's abuse in his mind, directing it at himself. If he had simply ignored the man, Malcolm would have felt no need to intervene and would have been spared an additional bruise, not to mention at least an hour of extra work.

Trip slapped his cloth onto the floor. _There was no need to do that, Mal._

However, Malcolm had apparently felt that it was necessary, staging his little "accident" just in time before the situation between him and Lendon would have gotten out of hand. Trip raised his head and found that Malcolm was looking at him, his eyes holding a strange combination of exasperation and... relief?

_It's not as if Lendon was going to kill me._

The worst thing that could have happened was that he would have spent a few hours in seclusion – which wasn't a pleasant prospect, but didn't quite justify the sudden and desperate intervention. There was no denying the expression in Malcolm's eyes, though, leaving Trip with the uneasy feeling that there was something the other man was not telling him.

"... you know, Reed, lookin' at you, it's like you fell outta the Stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. Tell me, do you have any brain at all in that ugly head of yours?"

Trip sighed and went back to work.

TBC...

Please leave a review and tell me what you think (profanity regarding Lendon is always welcome ;) )!


	14. Chapter 14

Loving your reviews!

Chapter 14

Trip awoke with a start when the truck came to a halt. His head had sunken down on his chest, and the muscles in his neck stung as he straightened up. Frowning, he brought up a hand to massage them, but it only worsened the stinging. Around him, the other men were slowly getting to their feet, hands pressing into aching backs and rubbing over tired faces.

"Come on, guys, it's late. Hurry up a little, will you?"

Moreno stood next to the lowered tailgate, watching impatiently as one by one, the men climbed down and stood on the soggy ground. Trip winced as he lowered himself off the truck. He was almost certain that he had pulled a muscle somewhere in the small of his back; it burned and pricked every time he moved. They had worked in the loading area today, carrying large wooden boxes into the waiting cargo trucks that were leaving for River Valley outlets all over the country. It was dark outside when Moreno and Lendon had finally led their tired party back to the truck.

"What's up?"

An arm was slung around Trip's shoulders and he jumped. It was Lendon, grinning and digging his fingers into Trip's upper arm. Trip could smell the cloud of unwashed clothing and cheap aftershave that accompanied the man wherever he went.

"You tired, Trippy boy? Poor whittle baby, what a shame."

Trip shook off the arm and caught up with Malcolm. He was too bushed to be dealing with Lendon's idiocy right now.

"Poor whittle Trippy, he so tired he won't even act like the pain in the ass that he is," Lendon sneered after him. Trip didn't turn around. He hated to be touched by the man, and knew that Lendon would see it on his face if he turned to look at him now.

"That bloody arsehole," Malcolm muttered as they followed the rest of the group into the changing room. There was hate in his voice, pure and unadulterated, and Trip knew that Lendon would have read the same thing on his face, had he turned around to confront him. Ever since the incident in the shower room, it was open warfare between them and the nurse, and Lendon seemed to enjoy every minute of it.

_Of course he does_, Trip thought as he opened his locker and pulled out the clothes he had deposited there in the morning. He shrugged out of his work overall, and winced when the sore muscle in his back sent another stab of pain up along his spine.

"You all right?" Malcolm, his own overall down around his waist, gave him a questioning look.

"Yeah," Trip said. He sat down on the narrow bench in front of lockers and began to pull off his boots, which were caked with dirt and mud. The rain had finally let up a little, but the ground was still soaked from weeks of incessant downpour, muck puddles everywhere. When they had walked back to the truck, there had been a funny squelching sound every time someone got stuck in the mud and had to yank at their boot to get it loose. _Kind of noise a sludge monster would make_, Trip thought and chuckled a little. He knew exactly what a sludge monster would look like – an odd, indefinable gray, huge fins, and rows of tiny yellow eyes. He had seen it in a movie once, the kind of movie you only watched when you were too drunk to follow anything with an actual plot. He could not remember the actors or even the title, but he did recall the sludge monster.

_Of all the things to remember from your mysterious past..._ Trip chuckled again, and suddenly noticed that Malcolm was watching with an expression he usually reserved for Toby when their roommate got started on mind-controlling rays.

"Just remembered somethin'," he said quickly. Malcolm seemed too tired to ask, and Trip was relieved that he didn't have to explain. Somehow, he had a feeling that Malcolm wasn't – and had never been – the sort of person who would enjoy a film featuring a homicidal bog creature.

He finished changing into his patient's uniform and pulled on his white sneakers with velcro instead of shoelaces. There were times when he wondered what had become of their blue jumpsuits with the "Enterprise" badge on the sleeves.

_Probably ended up in the trash_, Trip thought as he followed the others up the stairs and down the corridor that led to Ward 4. Chayton had told him that a patient's personal possessions were destroyed when he was admitted to River Valley. "No sense in keeping them," he had said. "It's not as if anyone's ever left this place."

Moreno slipped his keycard in the slot next to the entrance door and waved them inside.

"Are we still going to have dinner?" Frank asked hopefully.

Moreno nodded. "Yes, I called the kitchen to keep something for you. The container's in the common room."

Sitting in a warming container for three hours did nothing to improve the taste of the food, but no one seemed to mind much as they gathered tiredly around the table. The sandwich Trip had had for lunch was only a faint memory by now, and he dug into his vegetable stew without caring too much whether anything in there actually resembled vegetables; he knew that none of the produce they harvested found its way into River Valley's kitchen.

Across the table, Jimmy had fallen asleep next to his half-eaten meal, his head pillowed on a piece of toast. Several of the other men seemed dangerously close to succumbing as well, especially those who had dutifully swallowed their evening dose of drugs. All around that table, Trip saw heads nodding and more than once, spoons clattering onto plates when someone failed to grasp them firmly enough.

"What a bunch of suckers."

Lendon, who had been lounging on a chair next to the window, abandoned his place and came walking over to the table. At the nurses' table, Moreno grabbed one of the old magazines and began leafing through it.

"You, eat your goddamn dinner." Lendon came to stand behind Jim and grabbed him by the hair, roughly pulling his head up. "You can sleep later."

Jim's eyes snapped open and he yelped with pain. "Wha-"

"Eat!" Lendon picked up a spoon and dunked it into the stew on Jim's plate, then brought the dripping piece of cutlery up to Jim's mouth. He still hadn't let go of the man's hair. Jim, still disoriented, failed to open his mouth in time and Lendon knocked the spoon against his lips.

"Ow!" Jim's eyes filled with tears, his chin and mouth dripping with spilled stew. He tried to wipe off the mess, but by then Lendon had already prepared another spoonful.

"Open up for the choo-choo train!" he said and stuffed the spoon into Jim's mouth. Jim sobbed and swallowed and then began to cough.

"Ohh," Lendon sneered, "gotta be more careful, baby boy. Here, have a drink!"

He picked up Jim's glass of water and spilled the contents into the man's face. Jim made no move to defend himself and only cried harder, trying to hide his dripping face behind his hands.

Lendon laughed. "Oops."

Trip regarded the grinning nurse and wondered with an almost clinical detachment if it was possible to hate a person that much. He would have cheerfully stood by and watched Lendon choke on a spoonful of that stew, without wasting a single thought on coming to his aid.

He looked over at Moreno, who was still intent on his magazine. Owens would have intervened by now, but Moreno was a firm believer in the policy of the least possible interference, and it seemed to serve him quite well. Trip had noticed that these days, Owens hardly ever worked the day shifts anymore.

Lendon slapped Jim on the back of the head. "Eat up, baby boy! You don't wanna go to seclusion, do ya?"

"Can't you give it a rest?"

Silence fell over the room, and everyone, including Moreno, turned their heads to look at the person who had spoken. Toby's face was flushed and he was clutching something under his shirt, but he met Lendon's eyes defiantly as he continued.

"Can't you see that he's just tired? Why don't you leave him alone?"

Jim had raised his head, staring at Toby with trembling lips. Lendon, for once, seemed too dumbfounded to say anything.

"I..." With everybody's eyes on him, Toby seemed to lose some of his new-found courage, and his voice faltered. "I mean, it's not as if he's done anything."

Lendon blinked twice, as if he couldn't believe that it was actually shy, meek-minded Toby who was sitting there at the end of the table. Then, very slowly, a grin began to spread on his pale features. Trip had never seen an uglier expression on a person's face.

"Reynolds!" Lendon said, in a voice that suggested utter delight. "Look at you! I didn't even know you could talk! Now, if that ain't a miracle of modern medicine!"

Slowly, resuming his usual saunter, Lendon began to walk over to Toby. Frank and Louis, who were sitting next to him, moved over a little, their eyes averted. Moreno had returned to reading his magazine.

"Trippy boy's rubbin' off on you, ain't he?" Lendon had reached Toby's chair and rested his hands on the backrest, as if he had just come over to have a little chat. "Playing the rebel and all. I hate to break it to you, pal, but it doesn't really suit you. You might wanna keep trying, though, and maybe one day... what's that under your shirt?"

Toby, who had grown pale as Lendon approached, almost ducked at the nurse's words, and quickly pulled his hands out from under his shirt.

"Nothing, sir," he said in a small, frightened voice.

Lendon laughed. "You know, if you were gonna jerk off, you need to move your hands a little further down, Toby my boy."

Toby went crimson. "I wasn't going to..." He obviously couldn't bring himself to say it, and broke off.

Lendon laughed even harder and slapped Toby on the shoulder. "You're a hoot, Reynolds, you ought to be on Saturday Night Comedy! Too stupid to know where to- what's that?"

Toby made a grab for the object poking out from under his shirt, but Lendon was quicker.

"What the-" He held it up for everybody to see, and Trip experienced a sinking feeling as he recognized the small, black rectangle with the shining metal antenna. Lendon was holding the world's first and only neutralizer of dangerous, mind-controlling rays.

"What the fuck is that?" Lendon seemed genuinely confused as he turned the ray neutralizer over in his hands.

Toby had gone beyond pale. All color leached from his face as he watched Lendon handling the object that had become his dearest worldly possession. Out of the corner of his eyes, Trip could see Malcolm shaking his head at Toby, warning him to say anything. He echoed the gesture – _just keep it **shut**, buddy_ – but Toby only had eyes for his neutralizer.

Moreno had gotten up, his magazine abandoned. "Let me see that," he said to Lendon, and took the small device from him to give it a closer inspection. "Wait – that's the TV remote! I thought that it went missing." He glanced at Toby. "What the hell did you do to that thing, Toby?"

"Actually," Trip said, and all eyes turned to him, "that would've been me. I... I've been tryin' to repair it. I thought I might try the TV next."

"Yes," Malcolm joined in quickly. "We thought that it might be nice if we could watch the occasional film or game in the evening."

Moreno looked down at the neutralizer in his hands, then back at Trip. "You do know that this thing is nowhere close to repaired?"

Trip cleared his throat. "I... I'm still workin' on it."

Moreno shook his head, but seemed willing to leave it at that. Lendon had listened to the exchange in silence, a thin smile on his lips that Trip didn't like at all. Before Moreno could give the device back to Toby, he snatched it out of the other nurse's hands and began to walk around the table, his fingers stroking the black plastic casing as he talked.

"So you were trying to repair it, right, Trippy boy? And Reynolds was just... keepin' it safe for ya, wasn't he?" He came to a halt behind Trip's chair, uncomfortably close as he continued. Trip could hear it in his voice that he was enjoying every second of this. On the other side of the table, Toby's breathing hitched, as if he were getting close to tears. "Well, I'm sorry to ruin your little project, boys, but as Sam said, this thing won't work. Maybe it'd be a good idea to start from scratch, what do you say, Trippy boy? Take this thing apart and start right from the beginning?"

He dropped the neutralizer to the floor, but before he could stomp down on it, two chairs toppled over and two people shot up from their seats. Moreno grabbed Toby, who let out a demented howl and tried to wriggle out of the nurse's grip as he struggled to reach his device. Trip, who had jumped up at the same time as Toby, could not remember ever being so angry before. He pushed Lendon, who, unprepared for the attack, lost his balance and stumbled. Trip went after him, aching to hear the crack of bones as he delivered a punch into the hated face. "You-"

"Trip, don't!" Chayton and Malcolm grabbed him from behind. "Stop it!"

Lendon had regained his balance and the arrogant grin had returned to his face, although it did look a little strained. In the background, Toby was sobbing quietly.

"My my, Trippy," Lendon drawled. "What temper. I didn't know you were so fond of your little projects..."

"Paul," Moreno said. He was still holding Toby, who now clung to him for comfort rather than attempting to free himself. "That's enough. They're tired, and you're getting them all upset."

Lendon shrugged. "All right. Still, though..." He went over to the neutralizer, which had been knocked across the floor. "I don't think it's a good idea to keep this kinda trash around. They could hurt themselves playing with it."

"No!" Toby screamed.

Lendon grinned, and brought his foot down hard on the small device. "What a shame."

* * *

It was raining again. Lying on his bed with arms crossed behind his head, Trip stared into the wet darkness outside and wondered whether the rain ever really ceased around here. He supposed there had to be places where it rained all year long (England came to mind, although Malcolm would probably beg to differ) and maybe this was one of them. Sometimes, he found himself wondering why River Valley hadn't been swallowed by a sea of mud long ago. Sounded like a good idea, actually. The greenhouses would be first, becoming immersed in a giant puddle until there was nothing left but a few bubbles and the occasional lettuce seedling drifting on the surface. Then the goddamn building complex itself; the roof would cave in, the breakproof windows would shatter, and the walls would crumble until the mud had devoured it all down to the very last brick. He supposed there would be strange sound accompanying the entire process, rather like the growl of the sludge monster he had found so amusing earlier. Now, the thought failed to draw even a smile.

He wasn't sure why he had lost it so completely, back in the common room. Lendon had harassed Toby before, and if Trip was being honest with himself, he had known all along that the neutralizer would be found sooner or later, and that Lendon would not pass up the chance to see the look on Toby's face when his possession was destroyed. Maybe he shouldn't have built the thing at all. Or maybe he should have throttled Lendon in time before he could destroy it. The latter idea certainly held the greater appeal.

He turned over so that he wouldn't have to see the rain anymore, and looked over at Toby's empty bed instead. After Lendon had broken the neutralizer, Toby had thrown a fit of epic proportions, which had culminated in him writhing on the floor and burying his teeth in his left hand. Moreno had whipped out his walkie-talkie, and a few minutes later Dr. Rowland had arrived in a jog, followed by a team of three med techs. A syringe had been emptied into Toby's twitching upper arm and the small man had gone still, his bitten hand dropping from his mouth and leaving a red smear on the floor as the techs picked him up to lift him onto a gurney.

After the team had left for the Medical Ward, Moreno had looked at Lendon and for the first time since Trip had known him raised his voice. "Goddammit, Paul, why do you have to pull that kind of shit all the time?"

Lendon had shrugged, a cold undertone in his voice as he answered. "You better not be talkin' to me in that tone o' voice, Sam."

The other nurse had turned away, and it was all that had been said on the matter. Jimmy had asked tremulously if Toby was dead, and Moreno had assured him that no, Toby would only be spending a few days in the Medical Ward until he was feeling better. They had finished their dinner in silence and to Trip's surprise, Lendon had not said a single word to him after Rowland and his team had left. Maybe even he had decided that it had been enough excitement for one evening. Whatever the reason, Trip was not going to complain.

What worried him a lot more was that Malcolm had not really spoken to him after they had left the common room. Even now, the Englishman was refusing to look at him, sitting on his bed and staring at the rain with an inscrutable expression. Malcolm did have moments when he wasn't in the mood for conversation, but Trip sensed that this wasn't one of them. When Malcolm didn't turn to look at him even after Trip quietly cleared his throat, he opted for a direct approach.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm continued to look at the rainy night outside. "Yes?" he said quietly.

"Somethin' wrong?" He continued before Malcolm could respond, sensing that his question had only heightened the tension between them. "Look, I realize I shouldn't have blown up at Lendon like that. I know he'll want to get back at me... at both of us. I'm sorry."

At that, Malcolm finally turned his head. His face was hard. "Which will do a lot of good, I'm sure."

Trip frowned. "Listen, I said I was sorry. I shouldn't have done what I did. But..." He shook his head. "I don't know, it just feels wrong to stand by and do nothin'."

"I know," Malcolm said in a slightly softer tone. "It's not as if I didn't want him to get his teeth punched down his throat. I suppose everybody did. But you've got to be more careful, Trip. He could've just as easily ordered you to be taken to seclusion."

There it was again, the strange tone Trip had noticed before when Malcolm mentioned this particular part of River Valley protocol. The tone, and the fact that the other man never quite looked him in the eyes.

"Malcolm..." He hesitated, then plunged ahead with the question he had wanted to ask since the incident in the shower room. "Malcolm, is there somethin' you're not tellin' me? About the time you spent in seclusion, I mean?"

Malcolm stared at him for a long moment. "No," he said then. "There isn't. Lendon slapped me and put his cigarette out on my stomach, that was all. But..." He looked down at his hands. "I don't think he'll leave it at that the next time around. And especially not when it's you."

Trip was silent. He would have liked to tell Malcolm that Lendon could go fuck himself, that he wasn't afraid, but he would have been telling a lie. Truth was, he loathed to be touched by the man, so much that he had found himself scrubbing away at spots where Lendon's ever busy hands had left an ugly crawling feeling on his skin, even if the contact had occurred hours ago. Trip had never met anyone, man or woman, who revolted him the way Lendon did.

"Trip?"

He raised his head and found that Malcolm was looking at him.

"Yeah?"

"Be careful, all right?" Malcolm's tone was quiet, the hard expression of before gone to make room for genuine concern. "That man is crazy. There's no telling what he would and wouldn't do."

"I know," Trip said softly. He turned away and stared at the rain again. Dr. Lockhart had said that they would be safe in here, and at the time, he had agreed... at the time, any place that offered food and a bed to sleep in had seemed preferable to living on the streets. Now, he was no longer so sure.

"I'm turning in," Malcolm said, and Trip nodded without turning his head. Raindrops continued to trickle down the window, and not for the first time, he wondered if running away was really as impossible as it was made out to be.

* * *

_A glaring light shone into his eyes, and he squinted..._

_... no! Leave me alone!_

_There was blood on the floor, a trail of bright red spots on the white tiles as he was dragged away from the half open door and back down the corridor..._

_...hold him still..._

_...no! No, leave me alone, no!_

Bright light shone into his eyes as he woke up. It seemed to come directly from above, blinding him so that all he could see was a white glare. Instinctively, he tried to move away, fear flooding him when he realized that there were hands on his arms and legs, gripping him harder as he tried to struggle. Somewhere over his head, someone laughed.

"... hold still... don't wanna hurt yourself..."

Lendon. Trip fought harder against the hands that were holding him, and suddenly there was a commotion somewhere in the background, the sound of two people grappling with each other.

"Let him go!"

Trip recognized Malcolm's voice, sounding angry and frightened, and now he could see that Malcolm was fighting with one of them, trying to pull him away from Trip and the bright light. Trip tried to wrench his arms free – if he managed to struggle out of their grip, he and Malcolm might have a chance – but to no avail. His eyes were rapidly getting used to the glare of the flashlight, and he saw Lendon pull something out of his pocket and throw it to Malcolm's assailant.

"Here, use this!"

The man caught it and turned back to Malcolm. Trip saw the flash of a needle, and cried out along with Malcolm as it was buried in the Englishman's thigh. Malcolm's eyes widened as the plunger was pushed home, and took a shaky step back, his hands fumbling for the syringe that was protruding from his leg. He didn't have the strength left to pull it out, though, and a second later his eyes rolled back in his head, the empty syringe clattering on the floor as he collapsed.

"Malcolm, no!" Trip fought as hard as he could against their hands, and Lendon laughed as if he had never witnessed anything more amusing.

"Oh, Malcolm, no!" he mimicked Trip's cry and threw his hands up in a parody of horror. "Not to worry, Trippy, Lord Malcolm's only takin' a little nap. And..." He stepped closer, one of his hands disappearing into his pocket. "I think he ain't the only one." He pulled out another syringe and held it up so that Trip could see the needle and the transparent fluid inside the barrel. Lendon smiled, taking his time. "You didn't seriously think that I was gonna let you get away with that little stunt you pulled at dinner, did you, Trippy boy?"

"Fuck off!" Trip couldn't take his eyes off the needle that was now only a few centimeters away from his face.

"Scared, huh?" Lendon smiled almost benevolently. "I see your point, Trippy, those things can hurt if you don't use them carefully." He stroked the needle down Trip's cheek and jawbone, then traced it further down his neck until the metal tip was poised over the delicate skin between Trip's collarbone and shoulder. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

He grinned and began to push the needle down, very slowly. It hurt, more than Trip had imagined it would, but what was even worse was the warm, tingling feeling that began to spread under his skin. His head was suddenly very light. Lendon smiled, or at least Trip thought he did; it was as if his surroundings were engulfed in a misty substance that made it hard for him to see anything at all.

"... that's right, you go nighty-night, Trippy boy." Lendon's voice was faint and strangely distorted. "I'll see you in a little while, then..."

He might have said something else, but Trip had no way of telling; the misty substance had clouded his vision and absorbed all sound as he was swirled away into oblivion.

TBC...

Sorry 'bout the cliffhanger... don't throw any rotten tomatoes please, but leave a review :)!


	15. Chapter 15

-picks up all the fresh tomatoes and strawberries- Looks like I can make quite a healthy living just by posting cliffhangers... thanks for your reviews :)!

**Please note**: This chapter contains some violence and references to adult situations.

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Chapter 15

There was pain when Trip woke up. His mind was only gradually surfacing from the darkness where it seemed to have lingered for a while, and at first, he couldn't make out where the pain was localized. As he became more aware of his surroundings, it slid into focus until it had narrowed down to a stinging burn in his left upper arm. A burn like a needle piercing his skin.

He opened his eyes and was greeted by blinding light, a thing that had happened before. The light in itself was not frightening, but he had come to associate it with... images, which seemed to be lurking somewhere deep down in his subconscious, and those images did frighten him. He tried to move and the pain intensified for a short moment before it was suddenly gone, as if the needle had been withdrawn.

"Wakey wakey, Trippy boy."

Trip tensed. His eyes were getting used to the light, but he would have recognized the owner of that voice even without seeing him. It was Lendon, holding an empty syringe in his hand. Obviously, the pricking pain in Trip's left arm had been real.

Trip's mouth was dry, and he had to swallow twice before he could speak. "What did you give me?"

Lendon smiled. "Oh, just a little somethin' to get you back with the living."

Trip tried to sit up, and found that he couldn't. He looked down at himself and saw that he was tied down, his wrists and ankles strapped down with padded leather cuffs that were fastened to the frame of the cot-like bed. Except for his boxers, his clothes were gone.

A sudden panic overcame him and he began to struggle against the restraints, hard enough so that the metal legs of the bed rattled against the floor.

Lendon laughed. "You're cute, Trippy. Those were made to subdue the likes of Morris, and those big dumb oafs are the worst when they freak out. Ain't no way you'll break those things."

Trip stopped pulling at the cuffs. They were too tight, and he had noticed the look on Lendon's face as the nurse watched him struggle. There was amusement and mockery in his expression, which was expected if not exactly welcome. What unsettled Trip a lot more, though, was the tinge of dark excitement he had heard in the man's voice, and the way Lendon would not look away even for a second. Trip realized that in spite of his taunts, Lendon _wanted_ him to fight, to offer resistance.

He lay still, his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious after the first injection, but it didn't feel as if it had been very long... a few hours at the most. Which meant that it was the middle of the night, and with Malcolm out cold on the floor of their room and Toby in the infirmary, there was no one who would notice that he was gone. Not until the morning shift.

Lendon must have read his thoughts on his face, for he laughed again. "Scared, Trippy boy?" Carelessly, he dropped the syringe onto the floor – Trip could hear it rolling over the tiles – and came closer to the bed. "Yeah, I can see that you are."

He sat down on the edge of the narrow cot. Trip flinched when the fabric of the nurse's uniform touched his skin, and tried to move away from Lendon as far as the restraints would allow it. The physical proximity of the man was repulsive, a feeling that intensified when Lendon's eyes traveled over his body at a leisurely pace, as if he were contemplating a particularly succulent slice of meat.

Lendon smiled lazily. "Your own fault, though. Should've kept your big mouth shut. But you don't do too well in that respect, do you, Trippy?"

Trip said nothing, and Lendon didn't seem to have expected an answer. "To be fair, though, you're not as boring as the rest of them." He mimicked a scared, squeaky voice as he continued. "'Yes, sir', 'of course, sir', 'right away, sir' - they're all like that. I've gotta admit, you got a little more spunk... and I like that."

He lifted a hand and, almost absentmindedly, trailed his fingers down Trip's bare chest and stomach. Trip tried to move away, his chest tight with anger and disgust. He would have loved to break every single one of those fingers, slowly, watching the pain bloom on Lendon's pale face.

"Fuck you."

Lendon grinned. "See, that's what I'm talkin' bout." His hand began to move further down. "Big mouth... you kinda remind me of my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, that is. She'd talk like that when she was in a snit. 'Course, she only did it 'cause she knew it turns me on." He began to play with the waistband of Trip's boxers, slipping a finger underneath.

"What was her name?" Trip asked. He wasn't quite sure where the question had come from; he hadn't really been listening to Lendon as he tried to squirm away from the hateful touch. It was the right thing to say, though. Lendon's hand stopped, and he turned to look at Trip.

"Vanessa," he said. "Stupid little bitch. Thought I didn't know that she was seein' this asshole from her workplace on the side."

It vaguely registered with Trip that there was something akin to hurt in Lendon's voice.

"You dumped her?" he asked. Lendon's hand had not migrated any further south, and Trip bit the inside on his cheek as he faked interest in Lendon's answer.

"Yeah," the nurse said nonchalantly, but the expression in his eyes belied his words. "'Course I did. Wish I'd gotten my hands on the other guy, though."

He contemplated the idea while Trip didn't dare move, thinking hard and fast. His instinct was screaming at him to yank at the restraints, but he knew that it would be of no use. They were too tight, for one thing, and even if he did manage to pull free from one of the cuffs, he would still be in a very vulnerable position. Calling for help was not an option, either; at this time of the night, it was unlikely that anyone would hear him. And even if they did, well, no one opened the door to the padded cell (or its equivalent) just because the loony inside called for help.

"What about Vanessa?" he asked. "You two been together long before you split up?"

Lendon shrugged. "Not so long," he said. "I've never been one for long-term and all that shit."

_Yeah, I bet._ Trip tried to sound sympathetically interested. "Did you see her again, after, I mean?"

"No, I..." Lendon trailed off and his face changed, assuming the derisive half-grin Trip was so used to by now. "Oh, very clever, Trippy boy. Don't think you're gonna talk your way outta this one, though. We got all the time in the world."

His hand was back at the waistband of Trip's boxers, and this time he slipped it inside. Trip bit down harder on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood where his teeth were digging into the sensitive skin. No way he would give Lendon the additional satisfaction of struggling and squirming under his hand. He closed his eyes and tried to focus his mind elsewhere, pretending that there were no sweat slippery fingers fondling and exploring his most private places. Blood was running down the inside of his cheek and gathered on his tongue.

"You like that, huh?"

Trip opened his eyes again and found that Lendon was looking at him. The sallow face was flushed, Lendon's mouth half open as he were going to start drooling. Beneath the mockery, his voice held a layer of barely suppressed arousal.

"Tell me what you want."

The last question didn't sound like the threat he would have expected, rather like... a request? Trip considered Lendon's pale, narrow face that was twisted in a grimace of excitement, and for the first time realized that this man had to be one of the loneliest people he had ever met. And it was a self-made loneliness, which was maybe the worst kind of all. It hadn't taken long until Vanessa and her possible predecessors had found out what they were stuck with and moved on to something, someone better, leaving behind frustration, hurt and a desperate wish to control.

"I want you to keep your fuckin' hands off me," Trip said. A stab of cruel pleasure accompanied the words. He knew that somewhere in Lendon's warped mind, the man was waiting for him to say that yes, he liked it, and oh yes, go on please; all the things Vanessa was not going to say again and had possibly never said in the first place. "Or I swear I'm gonna puke all over you."

His answer had the intended effect. Reality intruded on Lendon's sweaty fumbling, and he stopped as if someone had slapped him. Anger and a brief flash of hurt flitted across the pale face before the sneering mask slipped back into place.

"Is that so." Lendon pulled his hand back, with an indifferent expression as if he had been planning to stop at this point all along. Then he suddenly whirled around and slapped Trip across the face. The blow was so hard and unexpected that Trip saw nothing but red darkness for a moment. Something warm trickled out of his mouth and he wasn't sure whether it was blood from where he had bit himself, or a fresh injury from the blow.

Lendon continued as if nothing had happened. "Too bad. I was gonna make this easy on you, Trippy boy, but you don't seem to get the message, do you? So I guess we gotta do things the hard way."

He reached into his pocket and brought out a small, lengthy object which Trip didn't recognize. Lendon hid it in his fist and held his curled hand up in front of Trip's face, who instinctively moved away.

Lendon smiled. "Not to worry, Trippy. I ain't gonna hurt you... much."

He moved his thumb, and suddenly a flash of silver jumped out of Lendon's closed hand. It was a blade. The sharp edge was only centimeters away from Trip's face.

"See this, Trippy?" Lendon turned the knife so that Trip could get a good look at it. "I wonder how it'd feel if I took that baby to your pretty face... or your balls. Would you like that, Trippy boy?"

Trip could not take his eyes off the knife, his white-faced reflection mirrored in the blade. _There's no telling what he would and wouldn't do_, Malcolm had said... what if he was right? What if Lendon had taken him here to do more than scare him a little and cop a quick feel? Trip had seen a few knives out there on the streets, and this one was clearly designed to kill.

"I s'pose you would like it, then," Lendon said and turned back to Trip's boxer shorts. "Quiverin' with anticipation as you are..."

"No!" His voice was no more than a frightened yelp, and there was still a part of his mind that hated himself for allowing Lendon to reduce him to begging. The greater part, however, was entirely focused on keeping his balls attached and in their accustomed place. "No, I... I wouldn't like that."

"Oh?" Lendon turned and smiled, knife in hand. "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

Trip closed his eyes. "I wouldn't like it... please."

"Please what?"

"Please... sir."

"Okay then..."

Trip felt the cot move underneath him. Although he would have liked to keep his eyes closed, he couldn't help but look whether the knife was descending on his privates, after all. It wasn't. The gleaming blade hovered right in front of his eyes.

"Now listen, Trippy," Lendon said, and lowered his hand so that the sharp edge only just brushed over Trip's cheek. It was cold and left an unpleasant tingle on his skin. "You do as I say and no one needs to get hurt. If you don't, though..." The blade was lowered again, and this time it came down far enough to make a delicate cut across Trip's right cheekbone. He felt blood trickle down the side of his face like a tear. "If you don't, this is gonna be very unpleasant for you. You get what I'm sayin'?"

Eyes on the blade that now sported a drop of blood, Trip nodded. "Yeah."

"Good." Lendon withdrew his hand. "Nice we got an understanding here at last."

He reached back and began to fumble with the restraints on Trip's ankles. Trip wasn't sure what the nurse was up to, until he found to his immense surprise that his left ankle had been released. The right one followed shortly after.

Trip stared at Lendon, who met his eyes with a cold smile. "Don't even think about it, Tucker." He brought the knife to Trip's throat, pressing the blade into his skin. "I'm gonna untie your hands now, and if you move as much as a finger, I'm gonna cut your throat."

The knife dug deeper into his skin as Lendon reached over to release his right hand. Trip lay perfectly still even as the pressure on his wrist eased. Lendon was going to do it; he had seen the look in the man's eyes. There was no uncertainty in those eyes, or even a fleeting thought of the consequences if a patient was found in a pool of blood with his throat cut. In this very moment, all Lendon cared about was the here and now, the fact that for once he had absolute power over another human being.

"You know," Lendon said as he undid the left cuff, "I don't want you to go 'round thinkin' that I'm the kinda guy whose sex life consists of jerking off, like you lot. Got myself another one after Vanessa, of course... an' she pays the bills if nothin' else. The Cooke woman," he added when his ramblings were met with silence. "Does come in handy, sleepin' with your boss, and I like older chicks." He grinned and pushed the knife a little harder against Trip's throat. "Still, there are times when she can get a little... boring, y'know what I mean? And that's when I like to come here... no pun intended. Now turn over."

"No," Trip whispered. He was trembling with anger and yes, fear, his hands clutching the frame of the bed. "No way."

Lendon jerked the knife so that it nicked Trip's skin. "Way, Trippy boy. Way." He buried his left hand in Trip's hair and pulled him into a sitting position, the blade penetrating to deeper layers of skin as it was jostled in the movement. Trip couldn't quite suppress a pained grunt as fresh blood welled out of the cut.

Lendon had gotten to his feet. "Up you get!" he said and yanked at Trip's hair. Trip's eyes watered with pain as the knife made another cut into his skin. Any deeper, and... Blind with tears, he stumbled to his feet. Lendon let go of his hair and grabbed his left wrist from behind. Trip's shoulder bumped against the nurse's right arm in the process, and Lendon's hand with the knife was knocked to one side.

Trip didn't think. He moved, lunging forward and biting down as hard he could, not even sure which part of the hand he had caught between his teeth. Lendon screamed behind him and Trip realized that it was a thumb he was trying to maul, the thumb that was curled around the knife. His teeth dug deeper and he tasted blood, felt the hand unfurl and let go of the knife which hit the floor with a metallic clatter. Something cracked under his teeth, and Lendon screamed so loud that it hurt Trip's ears. The hand gripping his wrist was gone.

Trip screamed along with Lendon as he let go of the hand that was dripping with blood and saliva, whirled around and brought up his knee between Lendon's legs. The nurse's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He staggered back a step, collided with the edge of the bunk and fell down on it, his hands clutching his crotch. In the meantime, Trip's vision had cleared enough for him to make out a neat semicircle of teeth imprints on Lendon's right hand, which left red smears on the nurse's white uniform.

Lendon whimpered. "I'll... kill you..."

Shaking and dripping blood all over the tiled floor – _blood and white tiles, this had happened before_ – Trip picked up the knife and held it in his trembling hand, pointing it at the man on the cot.

"You get any closer and..."

His voice failed, and he jerked the knife for emphasis as he slowly retreated to the door. Lendon was still doubled over in pain. "I'll... get you for this, Tucker."

Trip had reached the door and fumbled behind him for the opening latch. His fingers touched something cold and smooth, and he fingered the cool surface, searching for a button or a knob that would open the door.

Across the room, Lendon sneered. "D'you really think you can get outta here, you idiot? You need a-"

Lendon broke off. The door had opened, and Trip knew without looking that the person in the doorway was not one of Lendon's buddies who had helped to bring him here. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Nurse Owens was standing there, eyes wide as he took in the scene unfolding in front of him.

"What the fuck-"

It was as far as Owens got. Lendon got up from the bed and held up his bitten, bloodied hand as he limped towards the two of them.

"Careful, Mike, he's got a knife!"

Owens looked at Trip and blanched when he saw the knife in Trip's hand. "My God-"

Trip read on Owens face how he must look; a lunatic with a wild look on his face, blood on his lips and a deadly knife clutched in his hand, the nightmare of any psychiatric nurse. Slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, he crouched down, his eyes on Owens' face. Scared and confused as he was, he knew that this was his only chance of getting out of this situation, of letting them know what had really happened. He let go of the knife, then slowly got back to his feet.

Owens seemed about to faint with relief. "S-stay where you are," he managed, and matching Trip's slow and careful movements stepped forward to pick up the weapon. There was a soft, metallic click as he folded the blade back into its sheath.

"Thank God," Lendon said with a convincing tremor in his voice. "Or rather, thank _you_, Mike. He was gonna kill me. Man, if you hadn't come when you did-"

Owens turned to look at him. "That's your knife, Paul, isn't it? It has your initials on it."

Lendon forced a smile. "Yeah, it's mine, he must've taken it when I wasn't lookin'. He suddenly got it out and... well, good job you came in when you did."

He reached for the knife, but Owens closed his hand around it. "Paul, you know we can't bring stuff like that in here."

Lendon's lips twitched. "Yeah well, I needed something to cut my lunch apple with. So sue me."

"Last time I checked, Tucker wasn't your lunch apple," Owens said.

Suddenly angry, Lendon thrusted his bleeding hand in Owens' face. "He bit me, see?! I was defendin' myself, goddammit!"

"You just said he suddenly got the knife out, so how come he has cuts all over his neck? Paul..."

Lendon narrowed his eyes at Owens. "You better shut up if you know what's good for you."

Owens stared at the other man for a long moment, then abruptly turned away. "Come," he said to Trip without really looking at him. "Let's get you to the infirmary. You might wanna get your hand looked after, too, Paul."

"Mike."

Owens looked back at Lendon, who was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "Yeah?"

"My knife," Lendon said. "You forgot to give it back."

For a moment, Trip thought that Owens was going to refuse. The man's mouth curled in distaste, and he hesitated as if he wanted to say something.

"Now, Mike," Lendon said, and there was a hardness in his voice suggesting that he was not willing to take much more of this. "Or you know what."

Owens said nothing and simply tossed the knife to Lendon, who caught it casually with one hand and slipped it into his pocket.

"_Thank_ you." He glanced at his injured hand. "I'd better find someone to have a look at that. God knows what I might catch."

Owens took Trip's arm. "Come on, let's go."

Lendon chuckled behind them. "Careful, Mike, if you wanna keep your limbs attached."

Owens ignored him and began to walk down the hallway, his fingers closed around Trip's arm hard enough to bruise. Trip wasn't sure whether it was Owen's frustration that needed a vent or his fear that Trip might suddenly turn berserk on him, and he didn't really care either. He didn't really care about anything anymore. The floor was cold under his feet and he shivered, wondering why they hadn't at least given him back his clothes before they dragged him down to the infirmary. Something warm tingled on his chest and he glanced down to find blood trickling down his bare chest. One of the cuts on his neck was bleeding again.

_Blood on tiles..._

Trip was no longer sure whether it was the world of his nightmares or this one that would eventually drive him insane.

TBC...

So... any more ideas what to do with Lendon? Please leave a review and let me know what you think?


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks for your kind reviews! As for Lendon, I promise he'll get what's coming to him, eventually. In the meantime, I love your suggestions how to deal with him, because yes, even though I created him I really hate him, too :)!

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Chapter 16

The Medical Ward was quiet and deserted, as Trip had expected it would be. They had encountered no one on their way here, and it was still dark outside, the rain pouring down as it had when he had gone to bed. He supposed that only a few hours had passed since then. Malcolm was probably still out from the sedative Lendon's crony had injected into his leg, and more likely than not still lying on the floor, for Trip was quite sure no one had bothered to check on him.

"Where's Rowland?" Lendon, who had followed them into the room, glanced around. "Hey, doc!"

"He's not working night shifts," Owens replied. "I'll go and check if Linda's in the nurses' room. You can sit down over there," he added to Trip and nodded at one of the examination beds. "Clothes are in the locker, if you want to get dressed."

"Thanks," Trip said quietly and went over to the small cabinet the nurse had pointed out. Inside, there were several stacks of neatly folded patients' garb; kept there for new arrivals, Trip supposed. He picked a pair of pants that seemed to be more or less his size and slipped into them, feeling Lendon's eyes on him as he tied the drawstrings. He knew without looking that the nurse was grinning, well aware that Trip was relieved not to be exposed to his eyes any longer. Trip refused to look at him and took out a shirt. It stung when the fabric brushed over the cuts, yet not as much as he had expected. Maybe the injuries were more superficial than he had thought.

He closed the locker again and went over to the examination bed where Owens had told him to take a seat. How many weeks had passed since he had been here for the first time, waiting for his turn to be examined by Rowland? He realized that he didn't really know, and under different circumstances this might have been unsettling, frightening even. Now, Trip merely discarded the thought along with everything else. He felt empty inside, as if the last few hours had used up his entire store of emotions, and in a way he welcomed the void inside him. The alternative, which was either trying to kill Lendon or, worse even, allowing the tears to fall, would serve no purpose and only land him in even more trouble. Better to just sit there and wait until they let him go.

"Tucker," Lendon said from across the room.

Trip raised his head. The nurse was leaning against the wall next to the door, his injured hand cradled to his chest.

"Yeah?" he said hoarsely. Maybe this was Lendon's introduction of round two, or maybe the nurse couldn't pass up on the opportunity to taunt him some more. Trip wished he could at least find it within himself to hate the man, but even his hatred seemed to have dissipated, leaving only a faint annoyance at Lendon's presence behind.

"You realize that no one wants to hear your whinin' and complainin', don't you?"

It took Trip a moment to process Lendon's question in his mind. Then he understood, and shrugged. "Whatever."

Lendon pushed himself away from the wall and came a little closer. "No one'll listen to you, anyway. But I don't want Sandra havin' to deal with this shit. Dr. Cooke, I mean."

Trip stared at him for a long moment. Again, Lendon's indifferent mask had slipped a little, and this time it was fear that surfaced for a second before the man smoothed out his features.

"She wouldn't like to hear that she can be a bit boring, would she?" he asked. It was a stupid move, and yet he wanted to see a little more of that anxiousness on Lendon's face. A shallow victory, perhaps, but one he couldn't resist, either.

Lendon's face flushed in anger. "You watch your mouth, Tucker. Say one word, and it won't be you who has to deal with the consequences."

An emotion stirred in the void, one Trip had believed had abandoned him for good. "What do you mean, it won't be me?"

Lendon smiled coldly. "Well, maybe Reed needs to spend a little time in seclusion, as well. He tried to attack one of my orderlies, didn't he? And I bet he likes takin' it up the ass."

The emotion within Trip had grown into full-blown anger, a thing he wouldn't have believed himself capable of only minutes ago. "You keep the fuck away from him!"

Lendon laughed. "Jealous, Trippy boy? Don't worry, I'm not gonna steal your little boyfriend... well, I might, for a few hours. That snotty British accent is somethin' of a turn-on, don't you think?"

Trip looked away, thinking that he would throw up if he had to watch that ugly leer for one more second. "You're sick."

"And you better keep your mouth shut if you want to keep Lord Malcolm out of trouble. You wouldn't want his skinny English ass to get hurt, would you?"

Trip said nothing. He would have liked to go over there and strangle the man, slowly, and he knew that whatever came out of his mouth now would be too insulting for Lendon to ignore. And there was one thing the bastard was right about; he didn't want Malcolm to get hurt.

"I wonder what he'd do-" Lendon began when there was a soft click from the door as the locking mechanism was disengaged. The nurse broke off and immediately returned to leaning against the wall, contemplating his bitten hand as if it had kept him occupied the entire time.

"Finally," he said when Owens entered, an elderly woman in med tech's scrubs in tow. Her dark face assumed an expression of distaste when she noticed Lendon. "What are you doing here, Paul? Didn't know you worked night shifts now."

"Well, workin' day shifts does deny me the pleasure of your charming company," Lendon said. It was obvious that he was proud of his comeback, but the woman ignored him as if he hadn't said a word and glanced at his injured hand instead. "That a bite?"

"Courtesy of Tucker here," Lendon replied. "There are days when I hate my job."

"Tell me about it." She gave him a dry look, and Lendon actually flushed.

"Very smart, Linda."

Again, she ignored him completely. "Is it still bleeding?"

Lendon shook his head.

"Good." Linda pointed at the sink. "Wash the wound with disinfectant soap and then rinse it with clear water . I'll get an antibiotic for you to put on it."

"Shouldn't you be doin' that?" Lendon asked with a raised eyebrow, which he obviously believed would look insolent. In Trip's opinion, it merely looked stupid. Linda seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Not deigning to answer, she opened a drawer and took out a small tube that she tossed to Lendon. He didn't react in time, and had to bend down to pick it up.

"Your antibiotic."

"_Thanks_," he said pointedly, but the med tech paid him no further attention and came over to Trip.

"Hi, I'm Linda Cole," she said smiling. "You're new, right? 'Cause I usually remember the faces I've seen before."

"Yeah," Trip said, and even dragged up a smile in return. "My name's Charles Tucker. Trip, if you like."

"Trip," Linda repeated. "My granddad had a Golden Retriever called Trip. No offense," she added with an apologetic smile.

"None taken," Trip said. After tonight, being the namesake of a Golden Retriever seemed pretty mild.

"What happened to your neck?" Linda asked. Her tone was neutral, but Trip didn't miss the slight hardening of her lips as she took a closer look at his injuries.

Trip glanced at Lendon who was busy at the sink, ostensibly unaware of their conversation. _Telling her wouldn't help, anyway._

"I... stumbled and fell into a glass door," he said. The words left a stale taste in his mouth, and he could see that Linda didn't believe him, had never even expected that he would come forth with a truthful answer.

"I expect that's how you got the bruise, too."

Trip only nodded.

"Well then," she said and pulled up a wheeled equipment table, "yet another victim of the notorious pieces of furniture that seem to jump our patients whenever Nurse Lendon is on duty. Right, Paul?"

Lendon acted as if he hadn't heard her, intent on spreading minty-smelling antibiotic salve on his hand. The corners of Linda's mouth went down, but she said nothing and took a cotton swab from a jar on the equipment table.

"The cuts aren't very deep, and I think it's better to let them heal without coverings. I need to disinfect them, though." She picked up a small bottle and tipped some of its contents onto the cotton swab. "I'm afraid this is going to sting a little."

It stung more than a little, but Trip sat through the procedure without making a sound, aware that Lendon was still there, watching. As she exchanged the swab for the third time, Linda glanced up at his face. She seemed to have noticed something about his expression, for she turned around to Lendon.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be, Paul?"

Lendon smirked. "Actually-"

"I said, don't you have _somewhere else_ to be, Paul?" she repeated, and there was something about her tone that would have made most people jump. Even Lendon seemed to have noticed, and held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Okay okay, I'm off. Night, Trippy," he winked at Trip as he walked over to the door. "I'll see you later."

"Thank God," Linda muttered as the door had closed behind him. "Can't have that piece of shit stinking up the place."

Trip looked at Owens who was leaning against the other examination bed, morosely studying the ceiling. "Scuse me, sir?"

Owens looked at him. "Yes?"

"D'you think you could go and check on Malcolm? He... I think he hurt himself when Lendon came to take me to seclusion, and I'd like to be sure that he's okay."

"Hurt himself in what way?" Linda wanted to know.

Trip avoided her eyes. "He fell. I think he's unconscious."

"They knocked him out, huh?" Linda sighed when there was no answer. "Let me know if he needs to be looked after."

Owens nodded and went to the door. "Be right back."

He left, and Linda returned to cleaning the cuts. For a while, neither of them spoke, and Trip found himself wondering how many patients had sat here before him, having cuts and bruises tended to that Lendon was responsible for. From what Linda had said earlier, he supposed that it had been more than a few.

"There," she said finally, and tossed the last swab onto the examination table. "All done."

"Thanks," he said and smiled a little.

"You're welcome." She gave him a long searching look. "Are there any other injuries I should look after, Trip?"

The use of his nickname startled him for some reason, and it took a moment before he understood. His face warmed as he realized what she was getting at. "No," he said quietly. "I'm fine."

She began to gather up the soaked swabs, not looking at him as she dropped them one by one into the trash. Her tone was soft, almost gentle. "An injury to the rectum can lead to dangerous infections when left untreated. It's in your own interest that you tell me. Doctor/patient confidentiality doesn't allow me to repeat anything you said to anyone, so you don't have to worry about that."

"I'm okay," he repeated. _How many times has she had this conversation before_? "Really."

Linda leaned against the examination bed across from Trip. Her dark eyes were full of concern. "I can get Philip to talk to you, if you'd prefer that. He's my colleague from the day shift."

Trip shook his head. "Really, I'm okay." When she obviously didn't believe him, he added, "I bit him."

There. That didn't tell her anything she didn't already know, and yet she could draw her own conclusions. Which she did, judging from the small grin that tugged at her lips.

"Good for you."

Trip fervently seconded that statement, but was careful to keep his expression neutral. "Can I go back to my room? I'd like to see if Malcolm's okay."

"We should probably wait until Mike's back," she said. "He'll take you back to your ward."

"Okay."

"Is Malcolm a good friend of yours?" Linda wanted to know.

Trip nodded. "Yeah."

"That's good," she said softly. "You guys need to stick together in this place."

Trip could think of nothing to say to this. He knew that she was frustrated with his reluctance to talk, even though she might understand his reasons. Hell, he would be too in her place. Still... pouring his heart out to the night shift tech wouldn't change a thing. Linda couldn't go to Dr. Cooke for him; Trip had a feeling that Cooke would straight-out refuse to believe that her young lover liked to rape the patients in his spare time. And if Lendon found out... No. He couldn't let that happen. If their life was shitty now, it would be unadulterated hell after Lendon had discovered that Trip had talked.

The door opened and Trip glanced up. Owens was back, looking even more tired than he had before he left.

"Malcolm's okay," he said before Trip or Linda could ask. "He was just waking up. Bumped his head a little when he fell, but nothing serious."

"I'll get an ice pack," Linda said and Owens nodded.

"Thanks."

She went over to a small cooling cabinet and took out a bag that seemed to be filled with frozen blue Jell-O. Wrapping it in a towel, she handed it to Trip.

"Here. Tell him to keep that on the bump until the swelling goes down."

He took the bundle from her and smiled. "Thank you." He knew that she was doing this on purpose, giving him the ice pack instead of Owens, and was touched by the kindness of the gesture.

"You're welcome. Mike..." Linda grew more somber as she looked at Owens. "Are you going to file a report?"

Owens eyes behind the thick glasses flickered nervously. "Linda..."

"You know what happened," she said, with more strength in her voice this time. "They'll all know when they see the cuts on his neck. Christ, does this bastard have to _kill_ somebody before something is done about him?"

"I can't afford to lose my job," Owens said quietly. "You know that, Linda." He motioned for Trip to follow him. "Come on."

"Thanks again," Trip said to Linda, who sighed in response.

"You're welcome. Take care of yourself, okay?"

Trip nodded. He didn't look back at her as he followed Owens to the door. She meant well, yes, but what she didn't understand was that nothing would be done about Lendon _even_ if he tried to kill someone. Unless that someone killed him first.

Trip kept his eyes straight ahead as he stepped out into the hallway.

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Neither Owens nor Trip were in the mood for conversation, and so the first words were spoken when Owens opened the door to Ward 4.

"You okay?" the nurse asked quietly as he ushered Trip inside. Trip glanced at him. There was genuine concern on Owens' face, and he guessed the question hadn't been merely _pro forma_.

"Yeah," he said, and Owens nodded.

"You and Malcolm can have the morning off. I'll write Sam a note to pick you up after lunch, okay?"

Trip said nothing in response. He wasn't sure if this was Owens' way of apologizing, or if it was more about the fresh cuts and other visible injuries that would draw the looks of their fellow patients. In either case, it would be the first time in months that he didn't have to get up at six in the morning.

They had arrived at the door that led to the room he shared with Toby and Malcolm. Owens slid his key card into the slot on the wall.

"You gonna be all right?"

Trip nodded, not looking at the nurse as he pushed open the door. "Yeah. Night, sir."

"Night," Owens replied, and Trip thought he had heard a trace of sadness in the man's voice. He wasn't sure, though. Maybe it was just his inner emptiness reflecting on his perception.

The door swung shut behind him, and there was the familiar click of the lock being engaged.

Trip squinted in the darkness. "Malcolm?"

"Yes," a quiet voice said to his left. In the meantime, Trip's eyes had adapted to the dark and he saw the outlines of a figure on Malcolm's bed.

"Mal? Can I turn on the light?"

"Sure," Malcolm said, and Trip fumbled for the light switch next to the door. At least, he thought, they didn't have an automatically controlled "lights-out" at River Valley, even if everything else was not much different from prison protocol.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the bed when the lights came on, and Trip knew that Malcolm had noticed the slashes on his neck.

"It's not-" he began, but didn't get far when Malcolm jumped up.

"What happened?" The Englishman was pale, more so than usual, and Trip supposed that he was sporting one hell of a headache. There was a mixture of shock and quickly building anger in his eyes as he took in the full extent of Trip's injuries.

"It's not so bad." Trip held out the towel with the ice pack, hoping to distract the other man's attention from the cuts. "Here. The med tech gave me that for your head."

Malcolm didn't even spare it a glance. "What happened, Trip?" he demanded, a look of disbelief on his face as he came closer. "Those are knife cuts, aren't they?"

Trip sighed. He had no desire to give Malcolm a detailed account of what had happened in the seclusion room. All he had really wanted was to make sure that Malcolm was okay, and then hit the sack. He was suddenly very tired. "Yeah. Lendon had a knife with him."

Malcolm raised his eyes to Trip's face, and Trip could see that he was about to ask the same question Linda had, only with slightly different wording. Trip interrupted him before he could open his mouth. "It's okay, Mal. Really."

Malcolm stared at him for a long moment. "He didn't-"

"No he didn't," Trip said. How he wished he could just lie down on his bed and go to sleep. "We... we struggled, and I bit his hand with the knife. He lost it and I got away. Then Owens came in."

Not much for dramatic narrative, he thought, but Malcolm seemed to believe him.

"You bit him?" he asked, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Trip was glad to see it.

"Yeah," he said. "Tasted like shit, though."

Malcolm smiled a little, an expression that soon turned into a brooding frown again. "That bloody bastard."

Trip had to admit it did help that someone, that _Malcolm_ would be so angry on his behalf, especially since his own anger seemed to have deserted him again after the short interlude with Lendon back in the Medical Ward.

He handed Malcolm the ice pack again, and this time the Englishman took it. "Keep that on your head till the swellin' goes down. You feelin' okay?"

Malcolm nodded, holding the towel against the side of his head. "Yes, it's just a small bump."

Trip sat down heavily on his bed. "Owens is lettin' us sleep in tomorrow," he said and began to pull off his shirt, biting down on a hiss when it touched the cuts. "Moreno'll get us after lunch."

"Really." Malcolm's tone spoke volumes. Obviously he was thinking along the same lines as Trip; either the rare treat was meant as an apology, or the nurse didn't want the other patients to be upset by Trip's strange injuries. The longer he thought about it, Trip was inclined to believe that the former was true. From what Linda had said, he wasn't the first one Lendon had used as his personal spare time amusement. By now, the patients of Ward 4 were probably used to seeing odd cuts and bruises on each other.

"Did you see Toby?" Malcolm asked. He had gotten into bed as well, lying on his back with one hand under his head, the other one still holding the ice pack.

Trip shook his head as he rearranged his covers. He would have liked to pull them up to his chin, but he knew that the rough fabric would hurt on his cuts. "No, I think he was in a separate room."

The thought of Toby brought a vague feeling of guilt. Sure, he had only wanted to help when he had built the ray neutralizer, and it wasn't his fault that Lendon had found it. What remained, though, was the uncomfortable thought that maybe he shouldn't have interfered at all. Toby had seemed happy enough, yeah, but there was next to nothing Trip knew about their roommate's mental condition and how it worked. If the trauma of having his "protection" destroyed plunged him into a severe crisis, it would be partly Trip's responsibility.

He turned onto his side so he could look out the window. The rain was pouring down as steadily as ever. Maybe his vision of River Valley submerging in a sea of mud like Atlantis in the ocean would come true after all, if this continued much longer. He didn't even smile at the idea. Day-dreaming wasn't enough, and indulging in revenge fantasies was childish at best. This place wasn't just going to disappear like a rabbit in a magician's hat. _Not the place, no._

"Mal?" he asked, not looking at the other man as he stared out the window.

"Yes?"

"Do you ever think about runnin' away?"

There was a moment's silence from the other bed. "Of course I do," Malcolm said then. "The odds are bad, though."

"I know," Trip said softly. The odds weren't just bad, they were disastrous, and there was always Dr. Lockhart's warning that it was best for their own safety to stay here. _"There may be people desperate to get the knowledge you had before you lost your memories." _Those people, if they existed, were a long way from here, though, and how would they trace two homeless men on the run?

Trip stared into the rain. "Take care of yourself", Linda had said. Maybe it was time they started doing just that.

TBC…

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	17. Chapter 17

Thank you very much for your kind reviews and your creative ideas what to do with Lendon :)!

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Chapter 17

"You should try one of these things."

Trip glanced at Chayton. The tall man was crouched next to a tomato plant two rows down, giving no outward indication that he had spoken at all. His hands moved with machine-like precision as he picked the red fruits from their stock and arranged them neatly in the crate next to him.

"What?" Trip asked in an equally quiet voice, keeping his eyes on Moreno who was half-asleep in his chair at the front of the greenhouse. Lendon was outside smoking.

Chayton plucked off another tomato and devoured it in two bites, quickly and stealthily enough so that Trip would not have noticed if he hadn't seen the man's hand make a quick detour to his mouth. Chayton licked tomato juice from his lips and winked at Trip.

"Try one. They're great. What's good for the body is good for the mind," he quoted the slogan Trip had read on the cargo trucks that transported River Valley produce to outlets all over the country. He couldn't help but laugh.

Chayton grinned, obviously satisfied, and turned back to his work. Trip regarded the red, fleshy fruits nestled in between the green leaves. Chayton was right, they looked delicious, and he hadn't had anything to eat since lunch, which was more than four hours ago. A quick glance at Moreno assured him that the nurse had not woken from his siesta. Okay then, why not. It wouldn't be the first time he swiped something from the greenhouses, nor were he and Chayton the only ones doing so. Most of the men tried to grab as much as they could get, and some even attempted to smuggle fruits and vegetables into their pockets and back into their dormitories for a little midnight snack. The fact that the nurses went livid when they caught a patient with his pockets full of "contraband" only seemed to encourage everyone to try and get something past their watchful eyes.

_Must be something about "forbidden fruit" after all_, Trip thought as he took a bite of tomato, savoring the juicy taste. He was just about to finish his snack when a hand came down on his shoulder.

"Caught red-handed, Tucker," a voice that could only be Moreno's said quietly into his ear. "And quite literally, too. I guess that means you'll have to stay after class."

_Damn. _Dropping the tomato in an attempt to hide the evidence, Trip turned around to face the irate nurse – and found himself looking at Malcolm's grinning face. The Englishman was holding an empty crate and had obviously just returned from the front of the greenhouse.

"You-!" Trip jumped up, but Malcolm had anticipated the move and sidestepped it with a smirk. Looking around for something he could throw at the other man, Trip spotted a rotten tomato on the ground and made a grab for it. Malcolm's smug expression turned into alarm and he ducked, but not quickly enough.

"Bloody hell, Trip!"

It was Trip's turn to smirk as he watched Malcolm's futile attempts to clean his face with his sleeve. The Englishman glowered at him, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that his nose was sprinkled with brown tomato seeds.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Tucker. Now I'm going to smell like a bloody compost heap all night!"

"And it serves you right, too." Trip handed Malcolm a paper tissue which the other man grumpily accepted. "Nearly jumped out of my skin there. Didn't know you could do voices," he added. Malcolm had sounded just like Moreno, down to the subtle Latin American lilt that sometimes slipped into the nurse's voice.

Malcolm shrugged. "There are many fascinating things you don't know about me, Commander," he said in a strange, sing-song tone which Trip instantly recognized. Only that he had no idea _how_ he could recognize it; it was certainly not an accent he had heard before... at least not in this version of reality. Trip was so occupied with the startling familiarity that it took him a moment to realize what Malcolm had said.

"'Commander'?" he repeated softly. "What are you talkin' about, Malcolm?"

Malcolm's face reflected his own surprise. "I don't know," he said. "I... I've no idea where that came from. I don't even know whose voice I was doing. That is, I _know_ the voice. I just can't place it."

Trip nodded. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

He was silent for a moment. _Commander._ Another one of those words, like _Enterprise_ or _targeting scanners, _which Malcolm had mentioned in his fevered ramblings, back in the basement where they had sought shelter from the cold all those weeks ago. Trip had not forgotten any of them, collecting them like an archaeologist might collect the shards of an ancient tablet.

_Enterprise._

_"Starlight on a Vulcan sky",_ that song he and Malcolm both remembered and not remembered at the same time.

_Targeting scanners._

_Phasing pistols_, although he wasn't quite sure about that one.

And now, _Commander._

_What next?_ Trip thought, frustrated with his inability to place the memory fragments in any meaningful context. _Admiral? Mr. President? Your Highness_?

Malcolm looked troubled as well. "Trip, do you think-" he began, but was interrupted by a voice from behind, and this time the Latin accent was for real. Moreno, looking tired and disgruntled, had abandoned his chair and was coming towards them.

"You can chat later, okay guys? We're not leaving until we've got at least a thousand crates." He eyed Malcolm more closely. "You have tomato seeds on your face, Reed."

Malcolm shot a glare at Trip. "Yes, well, I... I slipped."

Moreno sighed. "Just because we let you sleep in today doesn't mean you can fool around the rest of the time. And you know that you're not supposed to eat any of the harvest."

He opened his mouth, probably about to tell them that they would have to work overtime, when his eyes lingered on Trip, just like they had when he had come to get them after lunch. Trip resisted the urge to cover his neck with his hand. He knew that the cuts were visible for everyone to see and that everyone was aware of the implications, even though no one had said a word to him. It was like being branded, and he hated it.

"You okay, Tucker?" Moreno asked quietly.

Trip nodded. "Yeah." He was okay, as long as he didn't have to deal with Lendon. Fortunately, the nurse was keeping his distance and hadn't so much as looked at Trip today. His injured hand was hidden under a swaddle of bandages, despite Linda's advice to leave the wound uncovered. Trip could only guess that Lendon didn't want anyone to see the teeth imprints.

"Well, then, back to work," Moreno said, not unfriendly. If he had noticed the remains of Trip's stolen tomato on the ground, then he chose not to comment on it.

They returned to working on the same row of plants, plucking faster to make up for the time they had lost. Trip's hands mechanically went from the tomato stocks to the crate and back, his thoughts still occupied with the strange voice Malcolm had imitated, well enough for him to recognize it. It had to be someone they had known in their former life... someone who would use the word "Commander". A military organization came to mind, an idea substantiated by the strange emblem on the sleeves of their blue jumpsuits. Trip was almost sure by now that Malcolm had received combat training at some point, or he wouldn't have known how to deal with Anthony. And if there was an organization... did they know that he and Malcolm were here? And if they knew, was it intentional that no one had ever come to look for them? Maybe whoever was out there had simply lost track of their whereabouts. Maybe all they needed was a sign of life, a signal that directed them to look in the right place.

"...do you think it meant you?" Malcolm asked quietly.

Trip glanced up, having caught only half of the question. "Come again?"

"This... Commander. Do you think it might've referred to you?" Malcolm kept his eyes on his work as he spoke.

"I don't know," Trip said. "Could be." He hesitated, unsure whether it was wise to discuss these things in here. "I keep thinkin'... maybe it's not such a good idea for us to stay here. I know it's safer, in case anyone out there's after something we knew. But... maybe we've got friends out there, too. People who might be able to help us." He paused. "And there's Lendon, of course. I'm not gonna take much more of his shit."

Malcolm was silent for a while. "I don't see how we could get away, Trip. I told you last night, the odds are close to zero that we would succeed."

"You said they were bad," Trip said, even though he knew Malcolm had a point. Dr. Cooke hadn't been exaggerating when she had mentioned River Valley's "strict security"; the place was locked down like a prison block. "There's got to be people who've tried it."

"Maybe." Malcolm didn't sound convinced.

Trip frowned. "Don't you wanna get out of here?"

Finally, Malcolm looked at him, his eyes intense. "Yes I do," he said, his tone sharp despite the fact that he was keeping his voice down. "As much as you do, in fact. I just don't think it's wise to act on a momentary grudge and almost certainly get caught."

Trip stared at him. "You think I'm suggestin' this because of Lendon?"

Malcolm's silence was an answer in itself.

"Listen," Trip raised his voice a little, "I'd rather not do this on my own, but I will if I have to. I'm not stayin' here for the rest of my life."

He half expected an angry outburst from Malcolm, but the other man only gave him a long look. "Neither am I," he said then. "All I'm saying is that we shouldn't do anything rash."

Trip considered him for a moment. "No," he said finally, picked up his full crate and got to his feet. "But I'm not just gonna sit there and wait forever."

He felt Malcolm's eyes between his shoulders as he walked along the row of plants to the front of the greenhouse. Chayton glanced up from his work when Trip passed and raised his eyebrows in a mute inquiry, having noticed the expression on Trip's face. Trip only shrugged and walked on. He shouldn't have snapped at Malcolm, but the Englishman's remark had hit a little too close to home. After last night, Trip couldn't deny that the idea of escaping had taken root in his mind and wouldn't let go. Even if there was no one out there looking for them... at least he wouldn't have to breathe the same air as Lendon anymore.

Trip placed his full crate on one of the stacks and had just picked up an empty one when someone grabbed his arm. There was a smell of cheap of aftershave and cigarette smoke that Trip recognized even before he turned around.

He tried to wrench his arm out of Lendon's grip, but the nurse held on, dragging him behind the stacks of crates until they were hidden from view.

"Let me go!" Trip hissed. "What do you want?"

Lendon pushed him against the crates which swayed dangerously and stepped up to Trip until his nose was almost touching Trip's face. His voice was strained and very much unlike his usual sneer. "You think this is over, Tucker, but you're wrong. Owens and Moreno won't be there to watch your ass forever, and then I'm gonna get you. I'm gonna make you wish you'd never been born."

Trip pulled back. "You practice that speech all night?"

Lendon's eyes narrowed. "You better be careful, Tucker."

"Or what?" Trip stepped to one side and away from the nurse. "I haven't told anyone, if that's what you're worried about. Don't have to, either; they all know what you're doin'. I don't know what you want from me."

Lendon raised his uninjured hand as if he wanted to hit Trip. Trip refused to flinch or duck away, and the hand hovered angrily in mid-air. "No one makes a fool of me, Tucker. Remember that, no one."

Trip only looked at him. He could see that Lendon had not slept well and wondered what the repercussions would be if Dr. Cooke found out the truth.

_One unemployed nurse, more likely than not_. _She wouldn't let him stay after that... if she believed it. And that is a big if._

Lendon must have read Trip's thoughts on his face, for he took a quick step forward. "You better not forget our deal, Tucker. You go blab to anyone and Reed ain't gonna see the outside of the Med Ward for a long time. 'Cause this time I'll be usin' the knife."

Trip wanted nothing more than to snap that pale neck, feel it break under his hands. If this asshole hurt Malcolm...

"You-"

"Careful, Trippy boy." Lendon held up a hand and grinned, sensing that he was gaining the upper hand again. "You don't wanna say anything wrong, do you? No, I know that you don't. Got little bitty Malcolm to worry about, right?"

"You leave him alone," Trip said, raising his voice. "Why don't you just leave us alone?"

Lendon smiled coldly. "I might have, Trippy, if you'd played along last night. But you think a little fun's beneath you, right? So I guess we'll have to do this the hard way... until you get the message, that is."

"Paul?"

Both Lendon and Trip turned their heads. Moreno was standing there, a worried look on his face. "Paul, what are you doing?"

Lendon smiled, back to his usual indifferent self. "Trippy here and I were just chattin'... he's got a lot to say, he does."

Moreno didn't answer the smile. "He needs to get back to work, Paul."

"Oh but of course." Lendon held up his hands. "Wouldn't want to stand in the way of that."

Moreno ignored him and nodded at Trip. "Go. We're behind schedule already."

Trip grabbed his empty crate and left, not looking at either of them as he walked back to the tomato patches. He was still shaking, his anger back out in the open and growing. This morning he had woken up thinking that he could deal with this, that he wouldn't let Lendon bait him into a wrong move. Now he was no longer so sure. Maybe the only thing he could do was get away before something happened that time and a little patience wouldn't fix.

He ignored both Malcolm's and Chayton's looks as he knelt down a few rows away from them.

_If there **is** anyone out there looking for us... now would be a good time._

TBC...

A virtual piece of pineapple upside-down cake to everyone who leaves a review!


	18. Chapter 18

-gives out slices of pineapple upside-down cake– Thank you very much for your reviews!!

Chapter 18

"One - two – now!"

Trip hefted the heavy wooden box off the ground, with Malcolm holding on to the other end. The thing was large and bulky and weighed about a ton, or so it felt to Trip as they struggled to get it into the back of the cargo truck. It didn't help that there was hardly any room left in the vehicle.

Finally, they had maneuvered it into the last corner available. Still in the truck, Trip paused for a moment to wipe the wetness off his brow, where sweat and water were gathering in equal amounts. The rain had been pouring down all afternoon, and there wasn't a dry spot left on his body. His footwear was supposed to be water-proof, but the puddles they had to wade through were deep enough so that the water had run into the top of his boots and drenched his socks. It was like treading into cold mud with every step he took.

Malcolm, who was barely recognizable himself under a layer of mud and dirt, jumped off the truck and landed on the ground with a splash.

"You coming, Trip?"

Trip nodded, although he would have liked to stay out of the rain at least a few more minutes. The back of the truck was roofed with a tarp and its sides were screened so that the cargo bed was fairly dry. Trip looked out at the muddy, puddle-covered loading area and sighed. At least they were almost done for today. He couldn't wait to get back inside, take off the wet clothes and maybe have a cup of hot tea.

_Cocoa would be nice_, he thought as he jumped off the truck, water and mud splashing up to his thighs. Sometimes, when the kitchen personnel had a good day, they would serve hot cocoa with dinner instead of the usual peppermint tea. Trip thought of a steaming mug full of hot chocolate with marshmallows and smiled. He wasn't sure where the marshmallows had come from – here at River Valley the patients could count themselves lucky when they got cocoa, let alone candy – but the image was right there in his mind, so real that it almost left a sweet taste in his mouth. Another memory fragment, perhaps, or maybe just his empty stomach spurring on his imagination.

Pulling the hood of his jacket back up, Trip followed Malcolm across the loading area to where the last few wooden boxes were waiting. Chayton and Jimmy passed them on the way, lugging another box in between them. Chayton was carrying most of its weight and Trip heard him grunt from the exertion while Jimmy stumbled along next to him. Trip knew that this had been going on all afternoon, but Chayton never complained and the nurses were happy as long as everybody appeared to be working. The tall man even managed to grin at Trip as they walked past.

"Look at them," he said and jerked his chin at Owens and Moreno. "I think I'm gonna retrain as a nurse one of these days."

Trip smiled wryly. The nurses had retreated to the roofed part of the loading area where they stood smoking and chatting with the truck drivers. None of them had as much as poked their noses out into the rain.

"Yeah, looks like an easy enough job," he said, and even Jimmy smiled a little. Trip was glad to see it. Jimmy didn't do very well even in the greenhouses, and the physical strain of lugging cargo was far beyond his limits. Last time Lendon had made him work with Toby, and after half an hour the slim man had collapsed sobbing on the ground.

"Good thing Lendon's not working today," Malcolm said quietly when Chayton and Jimmy had passed. Trip nodded, having thought the exact same thing. The nurse never passed up an opportunity to torment the nervous young man.

When they arrived at the storage area, Frank and Akashi were picking up the last of the boxes.

"That's it," Frank grinned weakly. "Finally."

Trip nodded and only now noticed how tired he was. He was aching in places he hadn't even known he had and his back was giving him hell. He thought of the hot cocoa again. Hopefully he would stay awake long enough to enjoy it.

Malcolm rubbed a hand over his face, leaving it streaked with mud. "And to think that there are people claiming that the English weather is bad. England's a bloody tropical island compared to this place."

"You've never been to England," Trip pointed out, earning himself a glare.

"Of course I have. Why else would I speak proper English, unlike the rest of you I might add."

Trip wanted to launch to his defense, although he knew that it wouldn't be much use when Malcolm was in this mood. More likely than not, he would get his head bitten off. Before he could say anything, though, Moreno's call diverted his attention.

"We're done for today, guys! Let's get going!"

The nurse was standing next to the truck that would take them back to the main building, his hood pulled down over his face. Over at the sheltered area, the drivers flicked their cigarettes onto the ground and nodded at Owens as they began to walk towards their vehicles.

Following the rest of the patients, Trip and Malcolm went over to the truck. Toby was already there, leaning against the side of the vehicle with his eyes closed. He looked ready to pass out from exhaustion.

"You okay?" Trip asked quietly as they stepped up next to their roommate.

Toby opened his eyes. "Yes," he said, his flat tone belying his words. Toby had returned from the Medical Ward only a few days ago and although he never mentioned the incident with the ray neutralizer, he was a lot more subdued than before and hardly ever spoke unless he had to. Trip suspected that Rowland was keeping the smaller man on heavy medication, but there was no way of finding out. Toby never talked about his drug intake as a principle, afraid that "they" would not approve if he revealed their methods to the other patients.

Trip asked no further and leaned against the truck next to their roommate, waiting for the rest of the group to gather for departure. Owens had finished his smoke and came over.

"Want me to drive?" he asked Moreno, who had his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

The other nurse grunted what might have been a "yes", and Owens began to climb into the driver's cab.

"Come on," Moreno waved for them to get onto the truck. "I'm drowning here."

_Tell me about it_, Trip replied silently as he waited for his turn to climb up. Judging from Malcolm's dry smirk, the Englishman was thinking along the same lines. Moreno, after all, had been relatively warm and comfortable while they had toiled in the pouring rain for hours.

A swear came from the driver's cab just as Trip was about to hoist himself onto the back of the truck.

"Goddammit!"

Moreno frowned. "Mike?" he called.

The door of the driver's cab opened and a very disgruntled looking Owens climbed out again, his glasses slightly askew on his nose.

"Something's wrong with the goddamn engine," he said.

Moreno's frown intensified. "What?"

"It won't start." Owens accusingly held up the car keys as if they were the source of all evil. "I tried several times, but the ignition's dead."

Moreno scowled. "That's impossible. Give me those."

"I'm telling you-" Owens began, but the other nurse had already snatched the keys from his hand and climbed into the driver's cab.

Owens rolled his eyes and stood, hands on his hips, waiting. Eventually, Moreno came back out, his cheeks flushed a dark red.

"It won't start," he said.

Owens raised his eyebrows at him. "You don't say."

Moreno ignored the sarcasm. "Wait a minute." He went to open the hood and frowned as he stared at the truck's intestines. "Hm... might be the spark plugs."

Owens sighed and went to join him. "Sam, you don't know a thing about cars. Why don't we call Jake and ask him to send someone here with another truck?"

Moreno glared at him. "Just let me take a look, okay?" He poked at something inside the hood. "Get me the tool kit from the back, would you?"

Owens sighed again. "Sam..."

Moreno looked up, an oil smear down his cheek. "My first car was this ancient Ford that would only start if you poked it long enough with a screwdriver. Taught me more about engines than a mechanic's manual."

Trip had never seen the nurse look so lively; usually, Moreno seemed nearly asleep half of the time he was on duty. Owens seemed to have noticed as well. He said nothing more and turned around to get the tool kit.

"Sir?" Chayton glanced at Jimmy before he continued. "If this is gonna take a while, do you think we could wait over there?" He pointed at the sheltered space across the loading area.

Owens nodded, hardly glancing up as he rummaged through a side compartment in the back of the truck. "Yeah, go ahead. I'll get you when we're done."

Relieved looks were shared at the nurse's reply. The rain had let up a little, but the wind blowing across the open square was getting chilly now that nightfall was close, lashing tiny drops of water into their faces. They were shivering in their soaked clothes, and from the glowing look on Moreno's face, it was only reasonable to assume that they would be here for a while yet.

As they followed Chayton, Trip's eyes came to rest on the cargo trucks. The first of them were about to depart, but a few of the drivers were still standing next to their vehicles, smoking one last cigarette before they left. One of the trucks, the one closest to them, wasn't even prepared for departure yet; the tarp that was supposed to cover the tail end was still hanging open.

And there was no one keeping an eye on it.

Trip grabbed Malcolm's arm. The Englishman frowned, eyes widening as he followed Trip's finger and became aware of the open truck.

Trip threw a quick glance at the two nurses who were bent over the hood, then at the other patients. No one was paying them any attention, and the smoking truck drivers had their backs turned to them. He looked back at Malcolm. This was crazy, dangerously so, and yet it might be the only chance they had.

It was Malcolm who broke the silence first. "Come on," he whispered.

Trip glanced at the nurses again. The open cargo truck was about fifty meters away and if Owens or Moreno lifted their eyes just once while he and Malcolm crossed those fifty meters, they would be caught.

Malcolm moved quickly and stealthily, taking the lead as if he had done this kind of thing a hundred times before. Trip followed him, running as fast as he could, dodging puddles and praying that he wouldn't slip on the muddy ground. The rain got into his eyes as he ran and he resisted the urge to turn around to see if they were being followed. Any second now, there would be an angry shout and the nurses would come tearing after them...

Except that it didn't happen. No one seemed to have gotten so much as a glimpse of them and as they scrambled into the back of the truck, climbing onto the wooden boxes, Trip felt a sudden, wild excitement. He had lain awake so many hours lately, racking his brain for a way to escape, but this had never even crossed his mind. And it might work. He realized that as he looked at Malcolm and saw the same excitement on the Englishman's face.

Climbing to the very back of the cargo bed, they pushed one of the wooden boxes away from the back wall of the driver's cab until they had created a space large enough for two people to sit down next to each other. That way, they would be hidden from view in case anyone looked into the back of the truck and at the same time protected if any of the boxes started shifting.

Trip's hands were shaking as he sat down next to Malcolm. It was dark in the truck and so he couldn't quite see the other man's expression. They were sitting close enough for their arms to touch, though, and he felt the tension of Malcolm's muscles under the fabric of his jacket.

He wedged his own hands in between his knees, his fingers intertwining. This could go so horribly wrong.

They sat in rigid silence, waiting, listening. The rain that drummed on the tarp over their heads was the only noise, and Trip had almost relaxed a little when suddenly the sound of voices drifted closer.

"... godawful weather to be driving cross country," a man said. Now the sound of boots walking on muddy ground accompanied the voices.

"Yeah," another one answered, and after a short silence added, "It's good to get on the road though. Can't stand this place."

"Me neither," the first speaker replied. There was a sound like a large piece of plastic being moved, and what little light had been there disappeared. "Gives me the creeps every time."

Someone was securing the tarp, the fastenings clicking into place.

"Well, then, I'll see you around, Joe," the second voice said.

"See you then," Joe answered. "Say hi to Jolene for me."

"If she's still there when I get home," the other replied gloomily, his voice getting harder to make out in the distance.

Joe chuckled and walked around the truck to the driver's cab. The sound of the door being slammed shut made them both jump. Trip bit down hard on his lip as the starting engine sent a shudder through the vehicle.

_Come on now._

The truck began to move, far too slowly for his tastes. He sat with his back pressed against the side wall, waiting for the running steps and the shout that would bring the vehicle to a halt. It couldn't be that no one had noticed their absence, that no one would come after them. This was River Valley, after all.

The truck moved faster, the boxes around them rattling against the floor. Trip tried to remember how far it was to the gate that led to the open road. Couldn't be more than a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred meters. He pictured the distance in his mind, growing smaller as the truck crossed the loading area. After only a short time, the vehicle in his imagination passed the gate, and there had been no shouts yet to stop it.

"You think we're outside yet?" Malcolm whispered.

Trip nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

The excitement of before had returned, filling him with a wild triumph. They were actually doing it. They were escaping from River Valley.

Malcolm grabbed his arm and Trip turned his head to look at him. His eyes had gotten used to the dark by now and he could see that the other man was smiling.

"Trip," Malcolm whispered. "You know, I think organic food's not such a bad idea, after all."

* * *

Even though Malcolm's statement made little to no sense at all, Trip suddenly felt laughter bubble in his throat and bit down on his tongue to keep it inside.

The floor beneath them shuddered as the vehicle gained speed.

"...Trip!"

Trip blinked. He hadn't meant to doze off, but the constant rocking of the truck combined with the low sound of the engine had lulled him to sleep. It was even darker now than it had been before, and he could barely make out Malcolm's face.

"Trip, I think we're slowing down."

Trip sat up straight. Malcolm was right, the truck seemed to be moving more slowly than before. He felt the wheels move underneath them as the vehicle left the straight road they had followed for a while.

"We can't be there yet," Malcolm said quietly. "It can't have been more than three hours and I'm sure that he's not headed to a place that close."

Trip hoped that Malcolm was right. The truck hadn't stopped so far, and so there hadn't been a chance for them to try and take a look at their surroundings, let alone find a way to get off the vehicle. With the truck in motion, they didn't dare leave their hiding place for fear of getting hurt in between the boxes; jumping off the moving car was out of the question. Trip wondered if River Valley had called the police yet. They probably had, and the police were bound to take this missing persons' report seriously, given that it was two "dangerous lunatics" who were on the loose. Maybe the driver had received a call and the police cars were following them, ready to take Joe's illegal passengers back to River Valley. Trip felt faintly sick at the idea.

The truck slowed down even more. Trip wondered if they should try and jump out now before the police had surrounded them, but dismissed the idea again. If the police _were_ following them, then they didn't stand a chance trying to run.

They sat in silence as the truck came to a halt and the engine was shut down. Trip held his breath in the short silence that followed. Then, the door of the driver's cab was opened and slammed shut again, and Trip exhaled. Joe wouldn't just get out if he knew he had two escaped mental patients lurking in the back of his truck, would he? Then again, maybe the authorities had told him to run for it, get out of harm's way...

Joe's slow steps didn't suggest that he was running to safety from the police's line of fire. And there were voices close by, as well as the sound of cars coming and going. No sirens, and certainly no megaphone voice telling them to come out with their hands up.

"I think he's just takin' a break," he whispered to Malcolm. "It's gotta be late, maybe he-"

"Shhh!"

Joe's steps had come closer, halting at the back of the truck. The driver stayed there, and after a while they could smell the smoke of a cigarette. Then a sudden burst of music filled the air and they heard Joe's muffled voice: "Yeah?"

The person talking to him on the cellphone made most of the conversation, with Joe only adding the occasional "yeah" or grunt.

"Yeah, I'm at a motel," he said eventually. "Gonna spend the night, then- yeah, I'll be back in time. Promise."

Trip glanced at Malcolm. This was the best thing that could have happened to them. If Joe intended to spend the night here, there would be more than enough time for them to find a way to get out of here and leave undetected.

Joe ended his phone call with another grunt, and Trip waited if he would get back to the driver's cab. There was the sounds of steps retreating and they sat in silence, waiting if he would return. After several minutes had passed, Malcolm whispered: "I don't think he's coming back."

Trip shook his head and got up. His legs ached after sitting in a cramped space for hours and he massaged them quickly to get the circulation back. Malcolm followed suit. As carefully as they could in the near darkness, they climbed over the wooden boxes until they had reached the back of the truck. It was slightly less dark back here, and as Trip looked closer, he discovered a small crack between the tarp that covered the back and the metal frame. White and red lights shone in through the small gap.

He tried sticking his hand through it, surprised when the tarp gave way and allowed his arm to pass through as well. Obviously, it hadn't been stretched very tightly.

"Can you reach the fastenings?" Malcolm whispered.

"I'm tryin'." Trip felt the metal outside for the buckles that held the tarp in place, his arm beginning to ache from the strain. "I don't think so."

Malcolm pushed against the tarp. "Maybe if we kick it hard enough-"

"Wait!" Trip felt the metal object his fingers had encountered. It had to be one of the fastenings, yet he couldn't make out how to open it. Fumbling for the release mechanism, he wondered what would happen if Joe – or anyone else out there – happened to look at the truck right now and saw a disembodied hand fiddling with the tarp. Right then, there was a soft click and Trip felt the buckle opening under his fingers.

"Got it!"

He pushed the tarp aside and quickly opened a second and a third buckle, which was easy now that he could see what he was doing. Finally, he had unfastened enough of the tarp so that they could climb outside.

It was almost dark save for the light that came from the motel sign looming over the parking lot. Trip saw no one as they climbed out, but as soon as his feet had touched the ground, Malcolm grabbed his arm.

"Quick, get under the truck!"

Trip obeyed without thinking, scrambling after Malcolm who had already disappeared under the vehicle. As he lay prone on the cool asphalt, he heard a car coming closer. A streak of light passed over their hiding place and briefly illuminated it before it disappeared again as the car changed direction. A moment later, its engine was shut off and there was the sound of a door being opened.

"... if you'd just told them that we had to leave," a male voice said.

"I can't just tell them," a woman answered, matching his annoyed tone. "They'd be upset. Besides, it was you who..."

Their voices drifted away as they walked across the parking lot to the motel building. Trip let out the breath he had been holding. Those people had walked by quite close, and if they hadn't been too distracted, they could have easily seen them.

They waited until the couple had disappeared in the building, then crawled out from under the truck again.

"We've got to get away from the road," Malcolm said quietly. "They'll search these places first."

Trip nodded and quickly buckled the tarp back into place. With any luck, Joe would never even notice that it had been opened.

They crossed the parking lot, walking away from the road and the brightly lit building. At a distance, Trip could make out the dark outline of trees and instinctively knew that this was the safest place for them to stay right now. Out there, even the police would have a hard time following their tracks.

As they left the parking lot and stepped onto the grass, Trip glanced at the dark sky and suddenly noticed something that had eluded his attention until now.

He smiled. The rain had stopped.

TBC...

Well, we had icecream from volley and pineapple cake, let's lay off the sweets for now... every person who leaves a review gets a Whole Wheat Pineapple Crunchie and a kiss on the cheek from the Englishman or Southerner of their choice!

Is that an offer?


	19. Chapter 19

I love your reviews!

Begoogled mentioned that the last chapter was a bit of "Shawshank Redemption". In fact, one of my betas pointed out something similar to me ("this kind of reminds me of "The Green Mile"), and yes, I'm a huge Stephen King fan and it may well be that this story (and others) were partly inspired by his writing :).

Thanks for telling me what you think!

Chapter 19

"I'm not sure this is a good idea, Trip."

Malcolm's face was only partly visible, half-hidden in the shadows. The dark clouds had lifted in the meantime, the moon immersing the landscape in its pale light. The forest lay behind them; after stumbling through the underbrush for maybe half an hour they had come upon a narrow road that had led them out of the woods and right into the middle of nowhere. Nowhere, decorated with a few fields, bushes and a farmhouse in the distance.

"Come on, Malcolm... we'll be long gone before they get up. And we need a place to spend the night."

"We could stay here."

Trip looked around. They had stopped at the edge of the forest next to a pile of wood, presumably left there until someone from the sawmill came to pick it up. The ground was wet and covered with tire tracks that led from the wood pile to the road, earthy grooves filled with brown water. The trees provided little to no shelter, and if it rained again, the entire place was likely to turn into a mud bath.

Trip glanced back at the farmhouse. "It's only five hundred meters, Mal."

Malcolm, sitting on a log, raised his head. The moonlight filtering through the tree tops illuminated his face, and Trip noticed the dark hollows under his eyes.

"Come on," he repeated and held out his hand, trying to sound optimistic. "They've got to have a garden shed or somethin' of the like."

Malcolm sighed and grabbed Trip's hand to let himself be pulled to his feet. "This is stupid."

As they stepped out of the shadows into the open, a sudden breeze caught Trip's hair and he shivered. He was miserably cold, had been ever since they had snuck out of the truck, and he knew that Malcolm wasn't faring any better. Their clothes had dried a little during the ride, just enough to be damp instead of dripping wet, clinging to the skin like cat hair to black velvet. They had tried wringing out their socks, but to little avail as the insides of their boots were still wet. Trip expected that walking in wet concrete came pretty close.

He buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his jacket, keeping his head down as he walked along the road. Maybe Malcolm was right and this was indeed a stupid idea, but the same went for spending the night on the cold and damp ground outside. They would be sick like dogs in the morning, not to mention the fact that they could just as easily be detected camping out next to the road as they could hiding in a shed. At least the shed might be marginally warmer, or so he hoped.

As they got closer to the farm, Trip noticed several smaller buildings adjoining the main house, one of which led to an enclosed paddock. Two cars were parked on the yard in front of the house, a smaller one and a truck quite like Joe's. Trip smirked at the idea. It would be a more than ironic twist of fate if the people here ran a River Valley outlet store. Not that business would be any good, in a place out in the boondocks like this.

_I guess for them traffic's heavy when they get to see more than two cars passing by on one day._

He was brought out of his reverie when Malcolm laid a hand on his arm.

"What is it?"

"Wait here," Malcolm said quietly, his eyes on the farmhouse that was dark and still in the moonlight. "I'll go first."

Trip frowned. "Mal, I-"

Malcolm interrupted him, his attention clearly focused elsewhere. "Just let me do a quick recce first. I'll get you when I know it's safe."

"Do a what? What are you talkin' about, Malcolm?" Trip tried to quell his irritation at Malcolm's suggestion. He could take care of himself, and he didn't want his friend to think otherwise. "I'm comin' with you."

Malcolm opened his mouth as if to protest, and closed it again with a confused expression on his face. "I... " He shrugged somewhat helplessly.

Trip sensed that Malcolm wasn't quite sure himself why he had suggested to go first and decided not to press the matter. The Englishman had done this before, acted as if he had an obligation to ensure Trip's safety, and Trip suspected that it wasn't only Malcolm's careful nature getting the better of him. Malcolm had quite obviously been trained as a fighter at some point in his former life, and maybe he had served as a bodyguard as well. Trip wondered in what function _he_ had served to require a bodyguard... assuming, of course, that it was him Malcolm had protected.

He shook off the thought and returned his attention to the situation at hand. "That building over there," he said quietly, pointing at the structure farthest away from the farmhouse. "I think it's a barn. I don't think it's locked, anyway."

Malcolm nodded, following Trip's finger with his eyes. "Worth a try."

They kept in the shadows of the trees, Trip following Malcolm's lead. He couldn't help but notice the other man's air of confidence, as if he knew instinctively that this was his area of expertise. _Maybe "bodyguard" isn't quite the word I was looking for_._"Spy" might be more like it._ He chuckled a little at the idea. _Malcolm Reed, in Her Majesty's Secret Service_.

Malcolm shot him a strange look , and Trip was glad that he didn't have to explain. He had a feeling that Malcolm might not have taken kindly to the joke.

As Trip had predicted, the wooden building wasn't locked; its door opened easily enough and luckily without a creak. They were just about to venture inside when a sudden, loud noise broke the silence. Trip jumped so hard that he bumped into Malcolm, and only when the noise repeated itself did he recognize it as the barking of a dog... a very large dog, judging by the deep, throaty sound.

"Dammit!"

Malcolm grabbed his arm and stopped his retreat. "Don't run."

"What-" Trip broke off when he followed Malcolm's eyes. The dog that was running towards them was huge, and even though Trip could not quite make out the breed in the dark, he could see its gleaming teeth just fine. It let out another bark, earth spraying up where its large paws hit the ground. It was too close for them to stand a chance even if they tried running.

They retreated until their backs hit the wooden wall of the barn. Trip noticed that a light had gone on in the farmhouse, but he barely spared it a glance. The dog had come to a halt in front of them, its ears flat against top of its large head. It was growling from the very bottom of its throat and Trip couldn't take his eyes off the teeth. If they had tried to run from this thing, it would have ripped out their throats for sure. As it was, it still seemed to consider whether their balls might be even tastier, its slavering snout hovering only centimeters away from their legs.

"Berta!"

The call had come from the direction of the house. Trip risked a glance and saw an elderly man running towards them, carrying a lengthy object in his hand.

"Berta, down! Get back, now!"

Berta's ears twitched, but she seemed to have no intention of backing off. Her nose was almost touching Trip's thigh, her lips pulled back in an unmistakable threat. The man grabbed her collar and pulled her away.

"Down, Berta!"

With her master on the scene, she finally obeyed, although her growling continued as she crouched next to the man's feet. Heart still pounding, Trip raised his eyes and found himself looking into the muzzle of a gun. The thin, bearded face of the man holding it was scared, despite the fact that he was the one with the weapon and the dog.

"Who are you?" he asked, a slight tremor in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

For some reason, the fact that the man was so obviously frightened by their presence allayed Trip's own fear, and he was able to answer in an almost normal tone.

"Thanks for callin' your dog back, sir."

The man frowned. "Who are you?"

Next to him, Malcolm took a deep breath before he spoke. "We apologize for the intrusion on your premises, sir. We're not... we're not burglars."

Not for the first time, Malcolm's distinguished accent earned him a surprised look and a set of raised eyebrows.

"What do you want then?" the man asked, with a nervous glance back at the house.

"We... we were mugged," Trip replied, saying the first thing that came to his mind. "We were wonderin' if we could call the police from your place."

The man's frown deepened. "Mugged? Out here?"

Trip glanced at Malcolm for help, and the other man continued, "Yes, well, not exactly. We... were hitchhiking, and they took our money and valuables before they threw us out of the car."

The man was still frowning. "Who's they?" he wanted to know.

"Two men, about my age or younger," Trip improvised. "They had a gun, there was nothin' we could do."

"Where did they throw you out?" the man asked, now marginally calmer. "We hardly see any cars out here."

"They drove us into the countryside so we wouldn't be able to call the police right away," Malcolm replied. "We'd been walking around for a while before we saw your house. We're sorry to be disturbing you that late."

Finally, the man lowered his gun, although Trip could see that he was still not quite sure what to make of their story. "S'pose it's all right," he said, hitching up his pajama pants. "You'd better come in then, if you wanna call the police."

"Thank you," Trip said. "Really appreciate it."

Berta, who seemed less trusting than her master, continued to growl and stayed close to the man as they walked towards the house.

"Quiet, girl," he said, then added with a glance over his shoulder: "I'm Edward Moore, by the way. You can call me Ed." For the first time since they had met, a hesitant grin spread over his creased features. "We don't get to see a lot of people out here. That's why she's a little wary of strangers," he added with a fond look at the dog. Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm. To him, Berta seemed less wary than homicidal, and her persistent growling made it clear that she did not approve of their continued presence in her master's realm.

He noticed that Ed was still looking at him and realized that the older man was waiting for him to introduce himself. Trip hesitated. He was quite sure that their names had been broadcasted to the news stations by now, along with their pictures and the wanted ad. Better not to leave any traces.

"My name's Mike Owens," he said after a short pause.

"Sam Moreno," Malcolm added. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Likewise," Ed replied. "Well then, come on in."

He opened the door that led into the main house and they followed him inside. To Trip's relief, Berta remained outside, her growling muffled behind the closed door. Ed turned on the light, illuminating a large, old-fashioned kitchen. Trip took in the well-worn chairs, the large wooden table and the knitted curtains at the windows, surprised at the distinct feeling of déjà-vu the sight stirred in him. He was sure he had never been in a kitchen like this one, or any kitchen as far as he could remember, and yet the room felt strangely familiar to him.

"Eddie, what's going on?" a sleepy female voice asked from the other side of the room, and Trip turned around. A small elderly woman was standing in the doorway, hands hidden in the sleeves of her salmon pink bathrobe. Her eyes widened a little when she became aware of the two strangers. "Who're these people?"

"Hitchhikers," Ed said. Trip noticed that he was still holding the gun, half behind his back as if to deflect attention from it. "They got mugged and want to call the police. My wife Helen," he added.

Trip tried for a polite smile. "Mike Owens," he said. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

"Sam Moreno," Malcolm introduced himself. "We're sorry for the inconvenience."

Helen paused for a moment, then she smiled back. "Can't be too careful these days," she said with a look at her husband. "I hope you didn't get hurt?"

"No," Trip shook his head. "They took our money, then told us to scram. I guess we were lucky, all things considered."

Helen nodded. "Would you like a cup of tea? It's got to be freezing out there."

"We don't want to be any trouble," Malcolm said with a hopeful tone in his voice. Helen seemed to have noticed as well, for she smiled. "No trouble at all. Eddie, why don't you go and get the phone from the living room while I make us some tea."

Ed grunted something and went through a door into an adjoining room. Helen busied herself filling tap water into an old kettle, which she set on the ancient stove. A small blue flame flickered up as she turned on the gas.

"Hope you don't mind tea bags," she said as she returned to the table.

"Tea bags are fine, ma'am, " Trip said.

She gestured at the chairs. "Please, sit down."

They had just taken a seat when Ed re-entered the room, carrying a cordless phone that he handed to Malcolm. "Here you go."

"Thanks." Malcolm said, eyeing the phone with suspicion.

Trip bit down on the inside of his lip. Like many things that were supposed to be everyday appliances, the phone looked strange to him, and from the expression on Malcolm's face he assumed that the Englishman wasn't quite sure what to do with it either.

_Can't be that neither of us has ever made a phone call in his life._

He glanced at Ed and Helen and saw that they were both looking at Malcolm, waiting for him to place the call. Malcolm licked his lips, then, obviously coming to a decision, hit several buttons on the receiver and raised the phone to his ear. His face was neutral, but Trip noticed the nervous flicker in his eyes. And realized that Malcolm, like he himself, didn't have the faintest idea what number the police had.

_My God... he just dialed any number._

He bit down harder on his lip. After several seconds, someone seemed to have picked up the receiver on the other end.

"Yes, this is Sam Moreno," Malcolm said. "I'd like to report a mugging."

He waited, and Trip could only imagine what the other person was saying.

"No, I'm afraid not," Malcolm continued. "My friend and I were hitchhiking and the men in the car threatened us with a gun." – "Two men, yes. They threw us out after they'd taken our money."

Trip noticed a faint gleam of sweat on the other man's forehead and racked his mind for a topic of conversation that would distract Ed and Helen from Malcolm's fake "report". Before he could think of anything to say, he was saved by a shrill whistle from the kettle.

"I'll get it," Helen got up. "Eddie, could you get out the mugs please?"

Obediently, Ed trudged over to a wall cabinet while Helen went to pick up the kettle. Trip tried to act as if he weren't listening too closely to Malcolm's "conversation", inwardly thanking his lucky star that it was not he who had to do the impromptu play-acting. He had a feeling that he wouldn't have managed to pull it off quite as convincingly as Malcolm.

"Yes, thank you," Malcolm was saying when Ed returned to the table, carrying four large earthenware mugs. "Goodbye."

He pushed a button on the phone and laid it on the table. "They said that they might have an idea who those men were," he said. "Seems like we weren't the first hitchhikers that got mugged around here."

Trip caught Malcolm's eyes before he spoke. _Owe you one, buddy_. "Figures," he said aloud. "I don't know why we got into that car in the first place."

Helen dropped four tea bags into the mugs and poured hot water onto them. "Is there anyone you can call to pick you up?" she asked.

Trip chewed on his lip, thinking fast. "I guess I could call my brother," he said then. "He gets back from a business trip tomorrow." _That should buy us a little time._

Helen handed him one of the steaming mugs. "Well, we're not going to kick you out just like that," she said and glanced at her husband. "You're welcome to spend the night, right, Eddie?"

Ed looked less than enthusiastic at the idea and seemed about to protest, but closed his mouth again when his wife raised her eyebrows. "_Right_, Eddie?"

"I s'pose," he grumbled, accepting his own mug of tea.

Trip exchanged a quick glance with Malcolm. _Too much of a risk_, Malcolm's eyes said, and Trip was inclined to agree. "Thank you, ma'am, but we don't want to be any more trouble," he said.

Helen shook her head. "It's no trouble at all. We've got a guest room with a double bed across the hall." She smiled. "You guys don't mind sharing, do you?"

"Really, we wouldn't want you to inconvenience yourself," Malcolm said. "We'll just walk to the next town and-"

"Oh no," Helen said in a tone that left no room for argument. "If anything, Eddie and I can drive you there in the morning. It's more than six miles from here and you'll need a place to spend the night anyway."

Trip hesitated. It was a risk, yes, and yet the idea of spending the night in a clean, warm bed was tempting. Besides, it might be even more suspicious if they insisted on declining the offer, given that they obviously had no other place to go.

"That's very kind of you," he said. "If you're sure it's no trouble..."

"Not at all, really." Helen smiled and took a sip from her tea, then set the mug down and got to her feet. "Come on, I'll show you there."

Malcolm slightly narrowed his eyes at Trip as they followed her. "Maybe we could call a cab," he began, but Helen interrupted him.

"Really, Mr. Moreno, it's no trouble at all." She smiled. "Besides, I'm not sure you'd find a cab anywhere within the next 20 miles or so."

Malcolm smiled back at her and Trip was relieved to see that the expression wasn't entirely forced. The other man was as tired as he was, and the idea of a warm bed might have convinced him to put some of his doubts aside.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and Helen nodded as she opened the door to the guest room.

"Here you go. The downstairs bathroom's over there, " she pointed at another door across the hall. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

They thanked her again and she left, smiling as she closed the door. "Sleep well."

* * *

Trip woke with a start. The room was dark, Malcolm next to him was snoring quietly, and for a moment he wasn't sure what had stirred him out of his sleep.

Then he heard it again and his breath caught in his throat. Voices. There were voices outside, and it wasn't only Ed and Helen talking. Berta barked, and Trip caught a few muffled words: "... called right away after we..."

His heart pounding in his ears, he pushed the covers aside and crept to the door as quietly as he could. The voices seemed to be coming from the kitchen now, as if several men had just entered the house. He pressed one ear to the wooden surface and listened.

"... thank God you're here," Ed was saying. "We recognized their faces in the late news..."

"We were so scared," his wife added shakily.

Trip turned around at a small noise from behind, and found that Malcolm had gotten out of bed as well. They stood in frozen silence, listening as an all-too-familiar voice drifted through the closed door.

"Don't worry, we're gonna take care of them now," Lendon said.

TBC...

Lol, please don't throw any rotten vegetables (fresh ones are okay)! Please let me know what you think!


	20. Chapter 20

Thank you for your reviews, they are very much appreciated!

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Chapter 20

Trip had never seen anyone move so fast. Malcolm was at the window in two large strides and yanked it open so that the casement banged against the wall.

"Malcolm, wait!" Trip gathered up their boots as he ran to join him. They wouldn't get far without those.

The voices from the kitchen had stopped. Trip could hear a muffled shout and shortly after, the sound of steps approaching. Malcolm, crouched on the windowsill, threw a quick look over his shoulder, then grabbed the window frame and pushed himself off the narrow ledge. There was a soft thud as he landed on the grass outside.

Trip followed him, holding on to their boots as he jumped. The cold night air bit into his bare chest and legs as Malcolm pulled him to his feet. Inside, there was the sound of a door hitting the wall and a male voice yelling out loud.

"Stop right there!"

They ran. Trip held their boots clutched to his chest, gripping them tightly so they wouldn't slip through his sweaty fingers. The grass was wet under his bare feet. Behind them, the voice yelled again, and Trip spared a quick glance over his shoulder. A man was climbing out of the open window, followed by another. In the dark, Trip could only make out their silhouettes, but he had little doubt who the first man was.

His chest was beginning to hurt, his lungs burning from the cold air. He heard several voices and the sound of running feet behind them and knew that this wasn't going to take long. He and Malcolm wore only boxer shorts, and even if they did get away, they couldn't-

"Stop!" someone shouted. Trip glanced back and found that their pursuers, five men in total, had come close enough for him to make out their faces.

"Trip!" Malcolm panted, several meters ahead of him, and Trip's head snapped around again. The other man's face was taut, his eyes wide and dark. "You - have to keep going, all right?"

"Mal, what-"

He broke off. Malcolm had turned around, and was now running towards their pursuers, his fists clenched. One of them shouted something and they broke apart, each of them approaching Malcolm from a different direction.

"Go!" Malcolm yelled at him. He had crouched down as if preparing for a fight, a fight he knew he was going to lose. "Run!"

The men bore down on Malcolm at the same time Trip threw the boots aside and ran back the way he had come. Malcolm yelled something, but Trip didn't listen. He was not going to leave him behind, not like that, and if Malcolm didn't like it, well, that was too bad. It wasn't as if they had ever stood a chance.

He grabbed one of Malcolm's assailants by the hair and sent him stumbling, then landed a punch in another one's stomach. The man's eyes bulged and he staggered backwards. Trip drew his fist back again, and stumbled forward when suddenly a boot impacted with the back of his thigh. One knee on the ground, he turned around just in time to see two of their attackers coming at him. He struggled to get back to his feet, and had almost made it when something hard connected with his jaw. His head snapped back, and the hard thing came at him again, this time knocking the air out of him as it hit him square on the chest. He cried out as he fell, sprawling on the ground. The world had turned a little foggy at the edges and it was only when a boot came into his field of vision that he realized what had hit him. It drew back again, aiming for his head this time. He tried to move away, hiding his face in his arms as the kicks and blows rained down on him. Somewhere in the background, there was a muffled cry and he recognized Malcolm's voice, but he could not raise his head to see what was going on. A boot hit him in the ribs, another one kicking his legs. He could feel the fog closing in on him and knew that he was very close to losing consciousness. Mobilizing his last strength, he tried to curl up into a small ball, his head still protected by his arms. He could smell wet grass, taste earth and blood on his lips. _Bite the dust_, he thought and breathed a laugh, which came out as a groan. _So this is what it's like._

"... had enough," a voice said, very far away. He wasn't even sure whether he had really heard it, but concluded that it must have been real when no more boots came down on him.

"Get 'im," the voice added, and in a far corner of his mind, Trip realized that it was Lendon standing there, Lendon who had given him the kick that had sent him to the ground. Hands grabbed his arms, pulled them away from his head and behind his back. He felt handcuffs being fitted around his wrists and tried to struggle weakly, only to earn himself a knock on the head.

"Stop it, will you."

The handcuffs were locked and Trip offered no more resistance as two of the men pulled him to his feet. His body ached as if he had been beaten with a blunt axe, and he could feel blood trickle out of the corner of his mouth.

Malcolm was still on the ground, one of the men grounding his face into the dirt while another one applied the handcuffs. Both of them sported rapidly swelling bruises and looked as if they would have liked to snap Malcolm's neck rather than putting him in restraints.

"Get up, you!"

Malcolm grunted with pain as he was manhandled to his feet. One of his eyes was beginning to swell shut and his lip was split, oozing blood that ran down his chin in a thin string. Trip caught his eyes, shocked at what he found. Malcolm's eyes were brighter than usual, and his lips twisted painfully before they moved to form a word.

"Sorry."

Trip stared at him, trying to understand, when Lendon stepped forward and backhanded Malcolm across the face. "That's for bein' such a pain in the ass," he jabbed one finger at a dark bruise on his cheek. "You'll be more than sorry when I'm done with you, Lord Malcolm."

"At least when he hit you, your hands weren't tied," Trip said quietly. His jaw hurt when he talked, and he found he had no energy left to shout at Lendon.

The nurse turned around and Trip expected to be slapped like Malcolm. Lendon smiled and didn't even raise a hand, as if Trip were not worth the effort. "I think it's time we found somethin' for your big mouth to do," he said, sauntering closer until Trip could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. He drew a finger along Trip's bruised jawline, persisting even as Trip tried to back away. Then he suddenly pushed Trip's head aside. "No... let's wait until we get home. Then the three of us can have a little fun, what do you say?"

Trip looked past Lendon at Malcolm. He had the distinct impression that the Englishman wasn't even listening to the nurse, lost in a misery worse than Lendon's threats and the prospect of returning to River Valley. Trip tried to catch his eyes again as they were being dragged towards the farmhouse, but Malcolm wouldn't look at him, a dark, far-away expression on his face as he stumbled along next to the orderlies who held his arms in a firm grip.

Lendon seemed to have noticed that neither of them was paying much attention to him and jabbed Trip in the back.

"Move it, there."

The orderlies led them around the house to the front yard. Two white River Valley vans were parked in front of the building, looking ominous and out of place in the rural setting of the farm.

Ed and Helen hovered next to the doorsteps, clad in their bathrobes and slippers. Helen's eyes widened as she took a closer look at Trip's, then at Malcolm's face.

"What- what did you do that for? They're bleeding!"

Lendon gave her a false smile that was obviously meant to be reassuring. "They became violent when we caught them," he said. "Put up quite a fight, I'm afraid."

Ed moved a little closer to his wife. "They look like they've been beaten up," he said, frowning at Lendon. "Can't say I approve of your methods, sir. They're sick people."

Trip expected Lendon to get angry, but the man seemed almost amused by the old couple. "Don't worry, they'll be fine once they're back in their familiar surroundings." He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Helen. "We're sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am, sir."

She opened the envelope and her mouth became a thin line. Then she handed it back to Lendon as if it were a piece of stinking garbage. "There's no need for that. Although I'm beginning to wonder if Social Services wouldn't be interested in the way you treat your patients."

Lendon's smile never wavered, but Trip had known the man long enough to sense that his patience was running thin. The nurse walked up to Ed and slipped the envelope into the pocket of Ed's threadbare bathrobe, ignoring the older man's outraged gasp.

"I think you would do well to keep this, Mr...," he glanced at the doorplate, "Mr. Moore. And you, ma'am, shouldn't concern yourself with things that are none of your business."

"Don't you talk to my wife like that!" Ed bellowed. "And you can keep your dirty money!" He threw the envelope at Lendon. The nurse only laughed and took a step back.

"Have a nice evening, Mr. and Mrs. Moore. Thanks again for your help."

He nodded at the orderlies, and Trip almost stumbled as he was dragged towards the larger of the two vans, Malcolm only a few steps behind him.

"Wait!"

Trip turned around and found that Helen had left Ed's side.

"Please," she said, a little out of breath. "Let me give them their clothes back and wash that blood off before you go. Please!" She reached for Lendon's arm, but he pushed her away so that she stumbled and fell.

"Get off me, you old bitch."

"You bastard!" Ed started for Lendon, who gave a nod to one of the orderlies who were holding Malcolm. The burly man let go of Malcolm's arm and stepped forward, blocking Ed's way.

"Calm down, pop," he said. "I know you don't wanna mess with me."

Ed was positively spitting with anger. "When the police hear about this-"

"Yeah right," Lendon waved him off. "Tell them hi from my boss when you call them."

In the meantime, Helen had gotten back to her feet. Her bathrobe was streaked with mud from the ground and her slippers were soaking wet, but she didn't seem to care.

"I'm so sorry. We wouldn't have called them if we'd known-"

"Let's cut the drama queening, okay?" Lendon nodded at the orderlies. "Get goin'."

As he was being shoved towards it, Trip noticed that the larger van had no windows in the back. Lendon opened its rear door, revealing a dark holding space inside.

"In you go, Trippy."

The two orderlies gave him a push that sent him headlong on the metal floor of the van. He had no time to move away as they threw Malcolm in, and the Englishman crashed painfully into his legs.

Lendon laughed. "Have fun in there, guys."

The darkness was instant as he slammed the door shut. There was a click as the locking mechanism was engaged, then the sound of steps and voices, too muffled for them to understand what was being said.

Malcolm began to disentangle himself from Trip and quietly moved away.

"You okay?" Trip asked into the darkness. He couldn't even see the contours of Malcolm's body, let alone his face.

"Yes," Malcolm said somewhere to his left. "You?"

"Yeah," Trip said, not quite truthfully. He was sore all over and his jaw ached something fierce, as if Lendon's kick had cracked the bone. With his hands tied behind his back, he couldn't feel it, although he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to talk if the jaw were actually broken.

A small vibration ran through the floor beneath them as the engine was started. The van began to move, the wheels turning under them as the vehicle changed direction. Trip thought of Ed and Helen, hoping they were okay. He didn't blame them for calling River Valley when they realized who their "guests" really were. The two old people must have been scared out of their minds, all alone in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with two escaped lunatics staying in the guest room.

_We should've never gone there. Malcolm was right._

Trip moved over so that he came to sit against the wall. His arm brushed against a shoulder, and the sound of quiet breathing next to him told him that Malcolm had chosen to sit in the same spot. Trip pulled his knees to his chest. It was damn cold in here, almost as cold as it had been outside, and he was sure he would have been able to see his breath forming a cloud in the air if it hadn't been so dark. As it was, all he could see was the blackness surrounding them.

_And don't we all love the symbolism of that._

He didn't even find a sarcastic smile to go with the thought. If it had been only him, he knew that he might have cried now, laid his head on his knees and had himself a good bawl. The tears were there, sitting at the bottom of his throat like a fat, hurtful lump. He gritted his teeth. If he was going to hit the bottom, then he was going to do it alone. He didn't want Malcolm to sit there and listen while he let himself go.

"You shouldn't have turned around," Malcolm said suddenly. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I told you to go on."

Trip was silent for a moment, remembering the expression in Malcolm's eyes when Lendon's orderlies had pulled him to his feet. It was the same expression that now echoed in his voice; guilt. Yes, that was it. Trip had not recognized it before.

"I'm not gonna leave you behind, Mal. What makes you think I would do that?"

"You should have!" Malcolm's voice was suddenly angry. "I can't protect you when you don't listen to me!"

"You don't have to protect me!" Trip raised his voice a little. "What's this bullshit all the time about protectin' me and keepin' me safe? I can take care of myself, you know!"

"It is my job-" Malcolm broke off, and when he spoke again, the anger had disappeared from his tone. "I... I'm sorry. Of course you can take care of yourself. It's just... I wish I'd been able to fight them off."

His voice was so soft and tired that Trip's irritation vanished as quickly as it had come.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "And there was no way you coulda fought them, Mal, it was five against two."

"I might have been able to fight them long enough for you to get away."

"Malcolm..." Trip sighed. "I told you, I'm not gonna leave you behind. And besides, where would I go?"

_In the middle of the night and in my underwear_, _for God's sake_. Their desperate scramble for freedom would have led them nowhere, even if they had escaped Lendon and his men.

Malcolm said nothing in reply, and Trip could only guess what was going on in the other man's head. The handcuffs bit into his wrists and he shifted a little to ease the pressure. His arms were beginning to ache, and he was sure that the lack of circulation would be giving him hell long before they arrived back at River Valley.

He shifted again. Maybe Lendon had uttered empty threats when he had said that they were going to have "a little fun", but somehow Trip didn't think so. There would be a punishment, and he was quite sure that Lendon would be the one to mete it out.

Trip closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold metal wall. He felt empty inside, drained. He knew that he would not offer resistance when they pulled him out of the van. The fight in him was gone, and he only wished for it to be over; the journey back, the punishment, his life in this place.

_Might come true sooner than you'd like to believe._

He kept his eyes closed, thinking that maybe he wouldn't even care.

TBC...

Sorry about the two cliffies in a row (although this one's rather mild)! Please let me know what you think!


	21. Chapter 21

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Chapter 21

He was dragged along a corridor, his arms painfully twisted behind his back. The handcuffs had been removed when Lendon's men had manhandled them out of the van, but Trip could still feel the places where the sharp metal edges had cut into his skin. His wrists had started bleeding at some point, and when the restraints were finally taken off, he sported raw sores on both sides.

"Move it!"

He had slowed down, and the two orderlies next to him gripped his arms harder, pushing him forward. He stumbled and would have fallen, had they not yanked him up again. Somewhere behind them, Lendon laughed.

"What's up, Trippy boy? Tired already?"

Trip closed his eyes for a moment. Yeah, he was tired. Tired of being pushed around and tired of being afraid. And he was afraid, he couldn't deny it. Whatever was going to happen now, it was going to be bad. He had seen it in Lendon's eyes when the nurse had ordered them to be taken inside.

It wasn't quite morning yet and so they encountered no one, although Trip was quite sure that Dr. Cooke knew that they had been caught. She would not come to their aid, however. No one would. River Valley would stay calm and silent as it always did, and if they didn't live to see the day, it wouldn't make a difference to the quiet routine. Nothing ever changed that routine, Trip knew.

They arrived at a white door at the end of the corridor, and Lendon stepped forward to slip his keycard into the slot. A green light flashed and the door slid open, revealing a room Trip remembered only too well. No windows, a narrow cot with restraints, and white tiles. Goddamn white tiles all over the place.

"If you please..." Lendon grinned and with an exaggerated flourish waved for the orderlies to take them inside. "I'm sure you gentlemen feel right at home here."

There was a sudden wave of fear and anger when they dragged him over the doorstep, and Trip tried to brace himself against the tiled floor, his bare feet scrabbling on the cold surface. The orderly on his right side smacked him on the side of the head.

"Stop that, idiot."

Trip's sore jaw hurt from the blow and he blinked. There were two chairs standing on the tiled floor which he had not noticed before; worn green plastic chairs like they had back in the common room. In a corner of the room, there was a large vat, shaped like a bathtub. It was filled with water.

Malcolm and he were forced onto the chairs. The orderlies grabbed his arms and pushed them down on the plastic armrests, one of them twisting his sore wrist when he tried to offer resistance.

"Keep still, dammit!" The orderly, an elderly man with a reddish face, turned around to Lendon who was leaning against the wall, watching. "You wanted us to tie this one up, right sir?"

Lendon nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Don't tie Lord Malcolm to his chair, though. I need him to get up again." He noticed that Trip was looking at him and winked. "The two of us are gonna have a little fun, Trip my boy."

One of the orderlies took a roll of black adhesive tape out of his pocket and, while Trip struggled in vain, began to wrap the tape around his arms and the armrests, securing him to the chair. Once Trip's arms were taped down, the man crouched down and reached out to tape Trip's left leg to the chair, stumbling back as Trip tried to kick him.

"Goddammit!"

"Leave it," Lendon said. "I think I can handle Trippy boy."

Next to him, Malcolm was pulled to his feet and held in a painful position while the orderlies tied his hands on his back using another roll of tape.

"Want me to put a piece over his mouth?" The elderly man grinned and held the tape up in front of Trip's face.

"Naw," Lendon said. "Trippy boy's a lot more fun when he can talk. Right, Trippy?"

_Fuck you_. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but he wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction. He tried to move his arms under the tape and found that they were almost completely immobilized. The tape bit into his skin like a live thing.

Malcolm was pushed back down onto his chair, his hands now securely tied behind his back. Lendon nodded at the orderlies. "You can go now."

"Sir..." The elderly man who had offered to tape Trip's mouth shut hesitated. "Don't you think I should stay here with you, just in case?"

Lendon grinned and shook his head. "Naw, I think I'm good here. I'll call you when I need your help."

The man looked slightly disappointed, as if he had just been told that he would miss out on the party. He didn't argue though, and nodded at the rest of the orderlies.

"Let's go, guys."

They left, grinning as they filed out of the room. The door closed behind them and Lendon, who had been slouching against the wall up to this point, went over and activated the locking mechanism.

"We don't want anyone interruptin', do we."

Trip pretended he hadn't heard and glanced at Malcolm. Malcolm's bruised face was tense, but there was an understanding in his eyes when Trip looked at him, and he knew that Malcolm wasn't going to beg, either.

_You hang in there, Mal._

Lendon sauntered closer, and Trip turned his head again. The nurse's pale face was alight, almost lively, and his lips were pulled back in a slight smile.

"Well, well, well," he drawled. "Nice to be back home, ain't it? Not that you've been gone long... but we we're gettin' a little worried. Can't have our patients crawlin' all over the countryside."

He laughed. "Y'know, it's funny. Most of them try at some point or other, but they mostly jus' sneak out of the greenhouses and try to find a hole in the fence. I've gotta admit you were a little more creative."

Without warning, he whirled around and slapped Trip hard across the face. Malcolm cried out in anger and jumped up, but Lendon pushed him down as easily as he would have a child.

"Take it easy, Lord Malcolm. Or I'm gonna tape _your_ mouth shut."

Trip's face stung from the slap, and he tasted blood in the corner of his mouth. Lendon was smiling again, as if the sudden blow had never happened at all.

"Looks like you ain't got the message yet, boys. But I'm sure we can find a way to make you recognize the error of your ways." He began to walk back and forth, slowly, as if he were lecturing a classroom full of attentively listening students. "Y'know... there's this psychologist I've been readin' about. Don't quite remember his name, Skinner or somethin'. Anyway, he built this nice little box in which he put his lab rats. When the rat did what he wanted, he fed it, and when it didn't – wham – he zapped it with an electric charge. Wasn't long until all the little rats knew 'xactly what to do not to get zapped. Pretty neat, huh? And this guy Skinner said that his little trick works on people too, if you know the right methods." Lendon turned around again, grinning. "Now let's say there're two nasty little rats that've escaped from their cage, what do you think Skinner would do? Feed 'em? I don't think so. I think he'd put them into his little box an' fry their hides 'till they're screechin'.He'd make sure they'd never even think of repeatin' their little stunt. Right, Trippy boy?"

Trip gave no answer, and Lendon laughed. "Yeah, right. Now let's say Skinner knows that one of them rats is afraid of somethin', let's say... water." Slowly, he began to walk over to Malcolm, hands still clasped behind his back. "So let's assume this rat's afraid of water, d'you think the good old professor would've stuffed that rat into his little torture box? No... I think he would've known that there's a far more effective method of makin' the rat learn its lesson. And I'd say we're gonna do jus' that."

He grabbed Malcolm's hair and yanked him to his feet. Malcolm struggled as hard as he could with his hands tied behind his back, trying to kick Lendon. The nurse laughed and caught Malcolm's arm with his free hand.

"Calm down, Lord Malcolm. We're only conductin' a little experiment here."

"Leave him alone!" Trip tore at the tape that was binding his arms, ignoring the pain when the adhesive pinched his bare skin. He could wiggle them back and forth about a centimeter now, but it was still nowhere near enough. "Let him go, you fuckin' asshole!"

"Such language." Lendon's voice was a little strained from the exertion of holding Malcolm down, although he did his best to keep up his casual tone. Malcolm had not spoken so far, but he was fighting with growing vigor, wriggling like an eel to escape Lendon's grip. Trip noticed that he was determinedly not looking at the vat in the corner.

"Goddammit!" Lendon had lost his hold on Malcolm's arm, and the Englishman sat down hard on the floor, his weight too much for Lendon to pull up again. "Get up, Reed, _now_!"

Malcolm stayed where he was, even as Lendon, now furious, kicked him hard into the small of his back. Trip yanked angrily at the tape. The bit closest to his right elbow was coming loose, but there was still too much of it firmly clinging to his forearm to break free.

"Get up!" Lendon's boot connected with Malcolm's ribcage, and there was a small but ugly crack. Malcolm screamed and tried to curl up into a ball, but to no avail when Lendon gripped a fistful of his hair and jerked his head up. "Are you gonna get up now or what?"

Malcolm did, clearly in pain as he staggered to his feet again. Lendon grabbed both his arms from behind and gave him a hard shove so that he stumbled against the vat. Water sloshed out and splashed onto the white tiles.

Before Malcolm had a change to regain his balance, Lendon was at his side, grabbing his hair and his right arm.

"Now let's see if you're a smart little rat, Reed."

He pushed Malcolm's head down and under the surface. Water bubbled and splashed onto the floor as Malcolm kicked and fought, but Lendon didn't loosen his grip.

"Let him go!" Trip tried to get to his feet, not caring that he was still tied to the armrests. His chair wobbled and would have tipped over, had he not quickly propped his foot against the floor.

"Careful, Trippy boy!" Lendon laughed. "Don't hurt yourself!"

"You're killin' him!"

"Naw, I'm not." Lendon pulled Malcolm's head back up. Red-faced and dripping with water, Malcolm gasped for air. "See? Still alive and kickin'."

With the last word, he shoved Malcolm's head back under water and the desperate struggle began again. Trip gripped the armrests of the chair and shook them as hard as he could, until suddenly something gave under his right hand. He yanked harder at it, and there was a dry crunch as the plastic casing came off the armrest, and with it the tape that bound him. Slipping his arm out of the now loose restraint, he used his free hand to pull at the tape that still held his left arm down.

"What the fuck-"

Lendon seemed to have noticed what Trip was doing and let go of Malcolm, who slumped to the floor in front of the vat, coughing and gasping. At that moment, Trip managed to rip the last of the tape off his left arm and jumped up. Lendon's eyes widened and he made as if to run for the door, but Trip was faster. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs on the wet floor, crashing into the empty chair which tipped over and clattered on the tiles.

"Get off me, Tucker!"

There was real fear in Lendon's voice, and maybe it was the realization that the bastard was actually afraid that sparked a wild, mad anger in Trip. Straddling the man, he wrapped his hands around the nurse's neck, his teeth bared in a grotesque grin as he smacked Lendon's head against the white tiles, again and again. Lendon screamed and Trip screamed back, a distant part of his mind wondering if it had really happened now, if, at last, he had actually gone insane. It didn't matter. If his sanity was the price he had to pay for this, then he would gladly give it up. There was blood on the tiles – _blood on white tiles, the dreams, the other reality_ – and yet Trip didn't stop, even as Lendon's screams ceased and his head only lolled back and forth before it was brought back down on the tiles. The _smack smack_ when it hit the floor sounded wet now, almost like a piece of fabric being slapped into water.

"Trip." Malcolm's hoarse voice finally broke through the haze. "Trip, stop it."

Trip did. His hands were still closed around Lendon's neck and he could feel something warm and slippery between his fingers. Blood. There was a halo of blood growing around Lendon's head, spreading on the tiles and pooling in the grooves between them. Blood on white tiles. Lendon's face was still, his eyes closed. In the weeks that had passed, the man's features had become something like a demon's mask to Trip, something he didn't associate with an actual person anymore. Now, Lendon suddenly looked human again, frighteningly so. Trip let go of the wet neck and Lendon's head tilted to one side, his mouth slightly open.

"Trip," Malcolm said again. Trip looked up and realized that he was still straddling Lendon, whose body had become so unnaturally still. Quickly he got to his feet.

"Mal, are you okay?" He went over to Malcolm, who was sitting on the floor in front of the vat. Tiny rivulets of water ran down his face, his back and his chest, and his breathing was coming in harsh, irregular gasps.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I guess I..." He coughed and a small stream of water came out of his mouth. Trip patted him on the back, helping him lean forward so that the water wouldn't hit his bare legs.

"There you go. Wait, let me give you a hand." He began to fumble with the tape they had used to tie Malcolm's hands behind his back. It was twisted and turned out of shape, and Trip had to tug at it for several minutes before it finally came loose. As he pulled it off, he saw that Malcolm's wrists were raw and bloody, like his.

Malcolm flexed his fingers, trying to get the circulation going again. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Trip studied his face. "Mal, are you all right?"

Finally, Malcolm looked up. "Yes."

"How... how did he know about your..." Trip didn't want to say it, and it wasn't necessary, either. Malcolm turned his eyes away.

"He must have read it in my patient's file. I told Owens when he filled out our admission forms." His lips twisted in an expression which might have been a smile, yet lacked all humor. "Nice to know that I could be of assistance."

"Malcolm..." Trip didn't know what to say and eventually settled for a brief touch of Malcolm's arm. The other man still wouldn't look at him and glanced at Lendon instead.

"What about him?"

Trip turned around again. Yes, Lendon was still there, lying on the tiled floor in a growing puddle of blood. Strange, that he would have thought otherwise. It seemed that a part of his mind had secretly expected Lendon to disappear when he looked away, just like a ghost or a vision out of a nightmare.

Slowly, he got to his feet and went over to the man, followed by Malcolm who was still a little unsteady on his feet. Trip found that he could do nothing but stand there and stare down at the still body, the blood. He knew that he would not be able to touch any of it. Malcolm didn't seem to have noticed. He knelt down on the floor next to Lendon and rested two fingers on the man's neck. Then he looked up at Trip and simply shook his head.

Slowly, Trip sat down on the floor next to Malcolm. "What are we gonna do?" he asked quietly.

Malcolm only looked at him and gave no answer.

TBC...

I'd really like to know what you think of this installment! Thanks to everyone who leaves a review!


	22. Chapter 22

Thank you so much for letting me know what you thought of the last installment!

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Chapter 22

Jonathan Archer lifted his fork and listlessly prodded the contents of his plate. Eggs Benedict. It had always been his favorite breakfast, and yet, for some reason the sumptuous egg-covered muffin didn't seem quite as alluring as usual. Even the smell of Chef's sauce hollandaise wasn't the same. He poked the muffin again and almost wrinkled his nose at the way the poached egg wobbled on its perch. Chef would blow a blood vessel if he knew that the Captain was treating one of his masterpieces with such disrespect, yet Jon knew that he would not be able to finish his breakfast today. There wasn't even a potted plant in which he could hide the remains of his meal, so he would just have to bite the bullet and face Chef's offended pride. Not something to look forward to; it wouldn't be the first dish he sent back untouched, and Chef didn't take kindly to that sort of thing. His cuisine was supposed to keep up the morale on board and if the crew refused to eat, Chef concluded that he was failing his duties. If the Captain refused to eat, it was the ultimate insult, the one thing that could not be ignored. In that respect, the temperamental ruler of Enterprise's galley was almost worse than her Armory Officer. Former Armory Officer.

Jon laid his fork aside and leaned back in his chair. Malcolm hadn't touched his Eggs Benedict either, the time Jonathan had invited the young Lieutenant for breakfast. Knowing that Malcolm would feel uncomfortable, Jonathan had considered asking Chef to prepare a full English breakfast, complete with fried tomatoes and baked beans, but eventually he had dismissed the idea. Unlike Trip, Malcolm didn't seem like the kind of person who would be put at ease by "a little bit of home" on the breakfast table. Or by most things, come to think of it. It had taken a near-fatal encounter with a Romulan mine to get a full sentence out of the man that wasn't in some way related to his duties. Of course, he might have liked the English breakfast, after all. Jon would never know for sure. The chance to find out more about his reticent Chief of Security was gone, as was Jonathan's best friend. He had never realized how dull meal times could get, now that Trip was no longer there to talk, joke and gobble up most of the food. In fact, they were so boring that there were times when Jon no longer bothered to sit down in his mess. Eating in his quarters with a padd propped against his glass had become a regular occurrence. Jon liked T'Pol's company, but she wasn't Trip. She never smiled, for one thing.

_Stop it_, he told himself and resolutely picked up his fork again. He didn't want to take a stroll down that particular side street of Memory Lane yet again. His breakfast was growing cold, and although it was a Captain's privilege to keep his own duty roster, Jon didn't want to be late for the alpha shift. It was a policy he had kept to from his very first day on Enterprise, remembering only too well how he had disliked superiors who took advantage of the prerogatives of rank. Just like Trip, who had more than once shot his mouth off with both Starfleet's top brass and the Vulcans.

_It's a small miracle that none of them threw a monkey-wrench into things when he was made Chief Engineer_. Jon found himself grinning a little. Trip might seem harmless and friendly enough, but his humor could be stingingly sharp when he was provoked.

He looked down at his plate and dropped his fork with a resigned sigh. Next time he would take his food back to his quarters again, where he could work on his reports and keep his mind from straying to places where he didn't want to go. Like the memorial service two months ago, the two empty coffins that were now drifting somewhere in the cold emptiness of space. Or the fact that every time he went into Engineering, he expected to hear a Southern drawl and found himself confronted with Commander Narayan's soft Indian accent instead. Or that every time he turned on the bridge to ask Malcolm for an analysis, there would be Lieutenant Inga Carlsson smiling at him, a smile that made Travis go slightly mooney-eyed but which only reminded Jon of the changes that had taken place. The fact that two of his friends were just... gone.

_Stop it_. He pushed his plate aside, giving up all hopes that he would convince himself to eat his breakfast today. He didn't want to think of the day four months ago, when Trip and Malcolm had failed to show up for duty. When Security had called him to let him know that their quarters were empty and that they were nowhere on the ship.

_Nowhere on the ship? That's impossible._

_Sorry, sir, but there's not a trace of them on the internal scans we ran._

How could two people just disappear? That kind of thing didn't happen, and it wasn't the kind of thing people would accept. The crew, himself included, hadn't accepted it for a long time. They had searched in the most unlikely places, had scanned the area of space again and again, had run internal scans until T'Pol stated that it was illogical to conduct the same procedure a forty-second time when there was obviously no result. Jon had turned Trip's quarters inside out in search of a message or a sign that _something _had happened, and after a short hesitation had done the same with Malcolm's, yet there had been nothing. It was as if Malcolm Reed and Charles Tucker III had never existed. It was what he had told the Tuckers when he had eventually called them, and for the first time ever, Susan Tucker had yelled at him, telling him to go find her son, right now. The Reeds hadn't yelled, had only sat there in stony-faced silence until he was finished. Then, Malcolm's father had coldly remarked that he had never expected any better of Starfleet and had cut the connection. Three hours later, Mary Reed had called Jon to apologize for her husband. "It's what he does when he's worried out of his mind," she had said, her eyes filling with tears. "You're going to do all you can, right?"

He had. After T'Pol had come up with her theory about a technologically advanced species abducting the two officers, Jon had spent hours persuading the Vulcans to give him "classified information" about the scan traces various alien technologies left behind. In the end, the High Command had been surprisingly helpful, but once again T'Pol's scans had revealed nothing. He had fought with Starfleet Command, who, after two months, had been reluctant to let him continue the search. It was Admiral Forrest himself who eventually ordered him to hold a memorial service. "You need some sort of closure, Jon. Your crew does, too. And Starfleet needs its flagship."

So, Lieutenant Carlsson and Commander Narayan had come aboard, and Jon had done his damnedest not to make them feel unwelcome. And they did a good job, even though deep down Jon knew that they could never replace the two men he had originally picked for their positions. No one could.

_Will you stop it already_. Shaking his head, he got up and walked over to the window. He was beginning to sound like a stuck record, telling himself the same thing over and over again. In fact, his thoughts had been chasing their own tail for the last sixteen weeks. How could two men simply be gone, leaving only two rumpled bunks behind? Once or twice, Jon had caught himself thinking that it would be easier if the empty torpedo casings they had released into space had carried two bodies instead of the good-bye notes and tokens the crew had collected. Closure, Forrest had called it. Jon smiled a little, but there was no humor in it. _Yeah, right._

The door opened, but Jon didn't turn away from the window. Maybe the steward would take pity on his Captain and would dispose of the untouched eggs before Chef saw them, maybe not. In any case, Jon didn't want to meet the man's questioning eyes when he picked up the full plate.

"You didn't have much of an appetite, did you?"

At that, Jon's head snapped around. He was sure that he was mistaken, that his mind was playing tricks on him. _Lack of sleep will do it to you._

The person standing there holding his plate of cold Eggs Benedict was obviously not a figment of his sleep-deprived mind, though. He looked as inconspicuous as always; a thin, average-looking man in a crewman's uniform, his dark hair combed back so that his long forehead looked even higher. The only thing that was different about him were the dark circles under his eyes.

"Daniels." Jon took a step towards him, but the other man raised a hand.

"Please, Captain. I would really appreciate it if we could keep this quiet."

"What are you doing here?"

Daniels smiled a little, an expression that turned out rather pinched. "Clearing your table," he said, lifting up the plate. "Although it seems that Chef needn't have gone to the effort."

Jon didn't even smile. "What do you want?"

If there was even the slightest chance that this was about Trip and Malcolm, then he didn't intend to waste time with formalities.

Daniels sighed and set the plate aside. "May I, Captain?"

Jon nodded, sat down again and indicated one of the chairs. "Please," he said curtly.

Daniels sat down, a little too stiffly to be comfortable. _Just like Malcolm when he first came here_, Jon thought, then pushed the memory aside.

Daniels folded his hands on the table. "Captain, there are several things we'll have to discuss. First, though, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that your officers are alive."

Jon stared at him, then, very slowly, leaned back in his chair. His mouth was suddenly quite dry and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Are you... are you sure?"

Daniels smiled his tense smile. "Yes Captain. They're alive, and we'll do our best to keep it that way."

Jon's voice was still a little unsteady as he answered, and it was all he could do to keep himself from grinning like a madman. Trip and Malcolm were alive. "Where are they?"

"On Earth," Daniels replied. "It's not so much a question of location, though."

"Time travel?" Jon asked. His sudden moment of euphoria was rapidly replaced by worry. Daniels' expression didn't bode well.

"Yes," he said simply. "I'm afraid we have quite a problem, Captain."

Jon folded his hands and rested them on the table top, unconsciously mimicking Daniels' gesture. "Explain."

Daniels sighed. "I'm not authorized to reveal all of the details, Captain, which I'm sure you'll understand. Suffice it to say that there has been an unfortunate development and that my superiors are currently faced with a temporal crisis of a magnitude we have never encountered before."

"A crisis?" Jon repeated. He had felt anger stir within him when Daniels mentioned the classified "details", and the feeling grew stronger the longer he listened, mingling with worry. "I want to know what happened to my officers."

"As I said, there was an unfortunate... incident." Daniels glanced at the window. "A group of rebels from my time managed to seize control of our headquarters. Their belief, if you want to call it that, is that my organization has desecrated the timeline beyond all hope of repair by subjecting it to human influence. They are convinced that it is their destination to create an entirely new timeline, a fresh start, so to say, and sacrifice the old one for the greater good of mankind. They had already done a great amount of damage when our troops finally subdued them."

Jon knew better than to ask about the troops and the "subduing" of the rebels. "What did the rebels do?"

Daniels looked back at him. "They abducted people from all over the timeline, erased their memories and abandoned them in a different place in time. They hoped that the temporal disturbances those people were bound to create would be enough to make the entire timeline collapse."

"But it didn't."

"No." There was a small tremor in Daniels' voice, which was a first. Jon had never seen the man look anything but calm and confident. "If you believe in any gods, you should be thanking them on your knees that it didn't."

"Why my officers, though?" Jon wanted to know. "Why would they pick Trip and Malcolm?"

"The rebels chose "key figures" in the timeline, often people who have in some way been involved in time travel before," Daniels replied. "That way they hoped to create the most damage. It's not surprising that they picked crewmembers of Earth's very first Warp 5 ship."

Jon slowly shook his head. "Probably not. So where in the timeline are they?"

Daniels sighed. "That's another problem, Captain. The rebels are amateurs, they didn't really understand how the timeline works and how to control it. They simply... threw their victims into the temporal vortex, without knowing at which point in time they would end up."

Jon's heart sank. "So you don't know where the victims are?"

"We're working on it, Captain. We've restored the timeline to a point where we can start checking it for disturbances and thus locate the victims. Of course, we have to wait until the victims actually create a disturbance before we can pinpoint their position in time. Fortunately most of them show up sooner or later. Socrates, for example, was chased through the streets of London by an angry Norman mob, somewhere around the 11th century. A little girl was trampled to death in the process, which is how we discovered him and brought him back to his own time."

Jon didn't even try to picture the scene Daniels described. "Are you saying that you've found out where Trip and Malcolm ended up?"

Daniels nodded. "Yes, we have. We've located them in North America, in the year 2048. It seems..." He hesitated, and Jon leaned forward.

"What is it?"

Daniels' eyes had returned to the window. "It seems that they somehow caused the death of a man called Paul Lendon. It didn't create too much of a disturbance in the timeline, only a small ripple, but enough for us to pinpoint their temporal coordinates."

Jon frowned. "You mean, they killed this man?"

"We don't know that, Captain," Daniels replied. "It might have been an accident. We don't know the circumstances."

Jon sensed that Daniels wasn't being quite honest, but he didn't press the point. Details, even the disturbing ones, could wait until later. "Do you know how long they've been in that time before this incident happened?"

Daniels shook his head. "No, Captain, I'm afraid not. Some of the victims we rescued had been there for only a few days, some for several years. It's only when they create a large enough disturbance that we can locate their position."

"They've been gone for four months..."

"Time is not always a linear constant, Captain. It can be fairly unpredictable. Maybe your officers were there for approximately four months, maybe more, maybe less. All we know for sure is where they can be found at the point of Lendon's death."

Jon nodded. "What do we do now?"

Daniels smiled thinly. "_You_, Captain, aren't required to do anything. It's my job to travel to the temporal coordinates where your officers were located, prevent Lendon's death and return Tucker and Reed to your time. The reason why we informed you at all is that you'll have to take care of the treatment."

"Treatment?" Jon repeated. "What do you mean?"

Daniels' smile vanished. "The rebels submitted their victims to a fairly crude procedure to erase their memories. My organization has developed a method to treat the amnesia. I will leave all the necessary instructions with your doctor."

Jon nodded slowly. "That sounds like a plan."

Daniels seemed relieved. "I'm glad you say so, Captain. You wouldn't believe the trouble some of our operatives had returning the victims to their own time and finding explanations for their initial disorientation." He shook his head. "One of them was almost burned as a witch when she administered the treatment."

Again, Jon didn't even try to wrap his mind around the fact that Daniels was talking about actual occurrences. "There's one thing, though."

Daniels looked at him. "What's that, Captain?"

Jon got up from his chair. "I'm coming with you."

Daniels stared at him, then he got to his feet as well. "You can't, Captain. That's impossible. My superiors would never-"

"Your superiors," Jon interrupted, "are in no position to give me orders. You let a bunch of fanatics fool around in your headquarters and play havoc with the timeline. My officers are my responsibility, and I'm going to make sure they get back safe and sound."

Daniels' mouth had become a thin line. "Captain, I can't take you along. It would be too dangerous."

Jon took a deep breath, then let it out again. There was a turmoil of emotions within him, most of them negative and directed towards Daniels and his superiors, who seemed to have no qualms at all when it came to pushing people around the timeline like pawns in a game. Giving the man a piece of his mind would get him nowhere, though. "Look, Daniels... I know my officers. They're not going to come peacefully, if you know what I mean. I could be of help in that department."

"I'm sure I can handle them, Captain."

Jon gritted his teeth before he said the word. "Please, Daniels."

The man gave him a long look, then let out a sigh. "You're not going to change your mind, are you?"

"No," Jon said. He didn't say that he would also never trust Daniels, his superiors, or anyone related to the Temporal Cold War. These people had power he admittedly didn't comprehend, and yet they seemed frighteningly human in their approach; bungling their way through, keeping the timeline together with duct tape and a prayer. It was not an idea he would ever get used to.

Daniels sighed again. "Well, Captain, in that case, we don't have any time to waste."

"No," Jon said quietly. "We don't."

TBC...

Good surprise, bad surprise, no surprise at all? Please let me know what you think!


	23. Chapter 23

Still loving your comments, thank you! –gives out some more Pineapple Crunchies-

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Chapter 23

"Captain, I am sure that Lieutenant Reed would not approve of your plan."

T'Pol's dark eyes were calm, but Jon had known her long enough to read her subtle facial expressions. Right now, the Vulcan first officer was clearly worried.

Jon had asked her to accompany them down to sickbay, where he quickly shared Daniels' information with her and Dr. Phlox. While T'Pol received the news stoically, the doctor was more than happy to learn that his two friends were still alive. He had immediately asked Daniels for details on the treatment, and while the two men were deep in conversation, Jon had seen a small ripple of emotions play over T'Pol's face in an, as she believed, unobserved moment. He had smiled, but made no comment. Even if he hadn't caught the expression, he would have known that T'Pol was not as indifferent as she liked to appear.

Now, she seemed to be channeling Malcolm's spirit, and Jon sighed inwardly. "I'm sure he wouldn't, Subcommander. That does not mean that I'm going to change my mind, though. I have to make sure that Trip and Malcolm get back all right."

"It is illogical to risk the Captain's life when the first officer is equally capable of handling a mission," T'Pol said. "I suggest that you let me accompany Mr. Daniels, if you feel that an escort is needed."

She was definitely channeling Malcolm's spirit. Jon could almost see his Tactical Officer's stubborn features behind T'Pol's calm face, outwardly polite, inwardly fuming at his Captain's bloody recklessness.

"Your suggestion is noted, Subcommander. But this is something I've got to do myself. T'Pol," he added, hoping to convey that he wasn't ignoring her concerns. He knew that Malcolm wouldn't approve of what he was going to do, that it was going to be a risk. Yet he didn't want to leave this to Daniels and his superiors, and he didn't want to send one of his officers to accompany a person that was, in Archer's eyes, only slightly more trustworthy than the Suliban.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow, but to his relief she didn't persist. Jon knew that Malcolm would not have let it go so quickly, but then, Malcolm was not a logical Vulcan. T'Pol seemed to realize that there was no sense in trying to dissuade the Captain, and so she decided not to waste her breath.

Daniels had finished his conversation with Phlox and came over to join them. He glanced at T'Pol and then Archer. "If you're trying to change his mind, Subcommander, I doubt that it will be of much use."

Jon opened his mouth, but before he could say something in response T'Pol had turned to Daniels. "Captain Archer has his reasons for what he is doing," she said, her face a portray in Vulcan dignity. "I support his decision."

Jon nodded, silently thanking her. Daniels sighed. "I see that not much has changed around here. If you insist on coming along, I'm ready to go. The doctor knows all the necessary details to begin the treatment immediately after we return."

Jon nodded. Although he did his best to conceal it, he couldn't deny that he was nervous, both at the prospect of the journey and the thought of what they were going to find at their destination. Ever since Daniels had told him about the "temporal disturbance", he could not forget about the man Trip and Malcolm had killed. Were about to kill. Weren't going to kill at all. No matter how you put it, the idea was unsettling.

Daniels took a small device out of the pocket of his crewman's uniform. It remotely resembled a scanner, yet Jon had no illusions that the inconspicuous-looking gadget had far more power than that.

"Ready, Captain?"

_Not really_, Jon thought. He merely nodded in reply, and Daniels' fingers danced over the device, activating it.

There was no flash of light, let alone were they pulled down a tunnel of wildly changing colors like in an old science fiction movie. It was a feeling not unlike the few times Jon had used the transporter; a strange tingling, a moment of disorientation, and that was it. Over before he really noticed that it had begun.

The sensation having passed, he looked around and immediately gripped the heft of his phase pistol, which he had clipped to his thigh before they had gone down to sickbay. While he wasn't sure what he had expected, it wasn't this.

"Are you sure that this is where we're supposed to be?" he asked, involuntarily keeping his voice down although there was no one to be seen.

Daniels didn't look up from his device. "We're in the right place and time, Captain."

Jon took a closer look at their surroundings. They were standing in a long corridor, lit by white halogen lamps. Further down, one of the lamps seemed close to dying, flickering and crackling erratically. There was a row of windows on the left hand side, yet Jon could not see outside since it was dark and rain was pouring down. For some reason, he didn't at all like what he saw.

"What is this?" he asked Daniels, who was still absorbed in his readings.

"This is the River Valley Hospital for Mental Care, Captain, " Daniels said. "The place where we've located your officers."

"What?" Jon stared at him, the corridor and the creepy silence of the place forgotten. "You mean, Trip and Malcolm are patients here?"

Daniels didn't look at him. "They wouldn't be the first victims we found in a place like this," he said quietly. "This way, Captain."

He began walking down the corridor and Jon followed him, trying to wrap his mind around this new bit of information. He wasn't sure why, but it would have surprised him less to find his Chief Engineer and Armory Officer in prison, or maybe a hospital. Normal hospital, his mind amended. A mental asylum was the last thing he would have expected.

Daniels touched his arm and pointed at a door down the corridor. It was painted white and there was a metal slot next to it on the wall. Jon recognized an old-fashioned electronic locking mechanism, the type of which he had seen in a museum before. There was a small window embedded in the door at eye level, but someone had slid a metal plate over it from the inside.

"Are they-" he whispered, but he never finished his sentence. There was a muffled sound from the other side of the door, like metal scraping over a hard surface. Then something crashed, and a very familiar voice yelled: "Let him go!"

"Trip!" Jon pulled out his phase pistol and aimed it at the electronic slot. Daniels grabbed his arm.

"Captain, I agreed to let you come along, but I must insist that you let me handle things from now on."

He tightened his grip, and after a long moment, Jon gave in. It wasn't as if he had much of a choice. "Hurry up."

"That was my intention," Daniels muttered, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of a struggle inside the room. Someone laughed, and even through the closed door Jon heard the malice in the voice.

"... killin' him!" Trip shouted.

Jon watched tensely as Daniels touched another surface on his device. A tiny red beam shot out of its end and hit the metal slot. Without so much as a sound, the door slid open.

The scene unfolding in front of him was even worse than Jon had prepared for. Trip, clad only in a pair of shorts, was tied to a chair, his battered, bloodied face a grimace of almost insane anger. Across the room, a dark-haired man in a white uniform grappled with another, pushing his head into a vat filled with water. It took Jon a moment until he realized that the kicking, half-naked body belonged to Malcolm.

"Let him go!"

The dark-haired man's head whipped around. "What-" The pale eyes grew wide all of a sudden, as if he had been hit by an invisible bullet. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His hands let go of Malcolm's hair and fell limply to his sides as he crumpled on the floor in front of the vat.

"That was that," Daniels said and slipped his device into his pocket. "He's not going to wake up again for a few hours."

Jon hadn't seen what Daniels had done to the man, but at the moment he could not have cared less. "Malcolm, are you all right?"

Malcolm was kneeling on the floor next to the vat, gasping for air. When Jon said his name, he raised his head. It was only then that Jon saw the full extent of his bruises.

"Who... who are you?" he asked hoarsely. "How do you know my-" He coughed again, and bent forward as a small stream of water came out of his mouth. Jon took a step in his direction.

Trip jerked back when Daniels approached him. "Who are you?"

"Commander Tucker?" Daniels said calmly. Trip flinched at the address and narrowed his eyes at the man.

"How d'you know my name? Who are you?"

"Who I am is of no importance right now," Daniels said. "You can trust us."

As Jon could have predicted, Trip would have none of that and tried to kick Daniels as he came closer.

"Stay away from me!"

Somehow, Malcolm had made it to his feet, although he was clearly in pain. His face and upper body were dripping with water, and he used his tied hands to brace himself against the wall.

"Who..." He coughed. "Who are you?"

Jon raised his hands to show that he meant no harm. "It's a long story," he said, looking from Malcolm to Trip. "We can't tell you right now, but I promise that we'll answer all your questions once we've got you out of here. My name's Jonathan Archer."

"Enterprise," Trip said all of a sudden.

Jon stared at him. "You remember?"

But Trip wasn't looking at him. "Enterprise," he said to Malcolm. "They're... they're military."

Malcolm eyed Jon's and Daniels' Starfleet uniforms, frowning. "Our overalls looked like that," he said finally. "It could be a trick, though."

"It's not a trick," Jon said. "We want to help you. We came to get you out of here."

"To take us where?" Trip asked, still suspicious. "How do we know you're not here to kidnap us?"

"You were kidnapped and brainwashed before you came here," Jon said. "Before that, you were part of our... our organization." Recalling the "overalls" Malcolm had mentioned, he added: "You remember the uniforms, don't you? You were a part of Enterprise before you were abducted."

He thought it best not to mention that Enterprise was a starship on a mission in deep space. Trip regarded him out of slitted eyes, obviously trying to find an inconsistency in what Jon was telling him. Jon noticed that his Chief Engineer had lost a lot of weight in the time of his absence, as had Malcolm. Their faces had a pinched look to them, and there was little left of Trip's smile and Malcolm's humorous twinkle.

Jon took another step forward. "Let me untie you," he said to Malcolm, then turned his head to look at Trip. "We don't mean any harm."

The two men exchanged a look, then nodded tensely. Jon stepped behind Malcolm and took a look at the restraints that held Malcolm's hands behind his back. There was a surge of anger when he noticed blood seeping out from under the black tape. Carefully, he began to loosen the twisted bonds, revealing raw wrists when they finally came off. Malcolm stood quietly through the entire procedure, and only winced a little when Jon pulled off the end of the tape.

"Thanks," he said softly.

In the meantime, Daniels had freed Trip of the tape that held him to the chair.

"We can't be much longer, Captain," he said. "Lendon isn't going to wake up any time soon, but we should keep our contact with these people to a minimum."

Jon nodded, aware that both Malcolm and Trip had followed the conversation with a frown. "Why don't you take us back now?"

"How did you get in, anyway?" Trip wanted to know. "This place is locked down like a prison."

Jon traded a look with Daniels. "You'll have to trust us on that one," he said finally. "You may be... surprised at first, but I promise you that you're safe with us."

"It's not as if we have much of a choice," Malcolm replied quietly. Jon looked at him. Obviously, Malcolm trusted them no more than he trusted Lendon, as if he could somehow sense that they were not telling the truth. And he was right; to all intents and purposes, Jon and Daniels were preparing to kidnap the two men.

"You'll have to wear these," Daniels said, holding out two devices that reminded Jon of tiny clip-on microphones. Trip and Malcolm stared at the things, but neither of them seemed willing to take one.

"What are those?" Trip regarded Daniels with a frown.

Jon tried to give Daniels a warning look, but the man seemed oblivious to it. "Temporal tags," he said calmly, as if he were asking them to wear warm jackets for the journey. "We need them to locate your position."

"Temporal..." Trip's eyes narrowed again, and Jon felt a sudden urge to strangle Daniels. Trip's eyes flickered to Malcolm, and Jon could almost hear the silent message: _Let's get out of here while we still can._

"It's just a precaution," he said quickly. "You can have a look at them first, if you like."

"Captain..." Daniels began, but Jon only shook his head. He knew that his officers were scared, confused, possibly angry and very close to bolting from the room, injured and undressed as they were. If they didn't do this right, he and Daniels would have a fight on their hands before they could get out of here.

Jon took the small devices from Daniels and handed one each to Trip and Malcolm. This time, they took them.

"I've never seen somethin' like that before," Trip said finally. "Doesn't look like a sensor, though."

"It's a new kind of technology," Jon said quickly before Daniels had a chance to reply. "I'll explain later."

This time, they seemed to accept the explanation. Awkwardly, Trip clipped the temporal tag to the elastic of his boxer shorts, this being the only piece of clothing available. After a moment's hesitation, Malcolm followed his example.

"Okay," Jon said, glancing at Daniels to warn him not to initiate the transport just yet. "This is going to feel a little strange, but it's okay. You're going to be fine."

"What about him?" Malcolm wanted to know and nodded at the unconscious man on the floor. "Is he injured?"

For the first time since they had entered the room, Jon actually looked at the man Daniels had knocked out. Lendon. Slumped on the floor like that, he didn't look dangerous, not at all like a man who would torture another by drowning him in a vat full of water.

"He's fine," Daniels replied to Malcolm's question. "He's going to have one hell of an headache when he wakes up, but other than that he should be okay."

"Pity," was all Malcolm said.

Daniels raised his eyebrows at him and turned back to his device. "Ready to go, Captain?"

Jon nodded. "Let's get out of here."

"How're we-" Trip began, but before he could finish his sentence Daniels had activated the transporter sequence. Again, Jon experienced a strange tingling that started at the base of his spine and crept over his back until it engulfed his entire body. There was a sudden, instant blackness, as if he had blinked without noticing it, and when it lifted the tiled, windowless room was gone.

They were standing in sickbay again, at the exact place where they had left... if one could call a leap through time and space "leaving". And Jon immediately knew that something was wrong.

"Where's Trip, Daniels?"

Malcolm was there, panic blooming on his face as he took in their surroundings. "Wh-where- what-"

Phlox took a step towards him, smiling in a manner that was obviously intended to be reassuring. "Please calm down, Lieu-"

Malcolm let out a strangled cry and stumbled backwards, crashing into a wheeled equipment table. Before Phlox or Jon could do anything to stop him, he had ducked under their arms and was running in a mad dash for the sickbay doors.

T'Pol never lost her cool. In a smooth, elegant movement, she stepped forward to block Malcolm's way and caught the distraught human in mid-flight. He struggled and tried to push her away, but she held him as easily as she would have a recalcitrant child. One hand firmly wrapped around his arm, her other hand came up and closed around Malcolm's shoulder. He stiffened for a second and then slumped forward into her arms.

Calm as ever, T'Pol turned the unconscious man around to pick him up, then carried him over to one of the bio beds. Malcolm's head rested against the front of her uniform, a situation that would have made the Englishman blush beet red, had he been awake.

She laid him down and turned around to assess the assembled men with a cool gaze. "I suggest you sedate Mr. Reed before he wakes up again, doctor."

"Where's Trip, Daniels?" Jon clamped down hard on the panic welling up in his chest. "What's going on?"

Daniels was absorbed in his device and hardly looked up at Jon's question. "Just a moment, Captain..."

"No!" Jon took a deep breath and forced himself to continue in a calmer tone. "I want to know what happened, Daniels."

Finally, Daniels raised his head. His voice was tense as he answered. "It appears that we've lost him, Captain."

TBC…

Another cliffie, I'm sorry (or not... ;) )… please let me know what you think!


	24. Chapter 24

Thank you for your kind reviews!

Chapter 24

Trip gasped. Darkness surrounded him and it was cold, so cold that it hurt. There was a roar in his ears and something knocked into him, tumbling him over and turning him upside down. He tried to catch his breath and suddenly his mouth was full of ice-cold liquid. Water. The place seemed to have no up and down, only water that roared and raged around him, tossing him back and forth. His head came up and he tried to scream, but the water in his mouth and throat choked him. This could not be real, it had to be a nightmare. In a flash of light, he saw a gigantic wall of water looming over him and he squeezed his eyes shut – _ it's a dream, it's just a dream_. The wall crashed down on him and cold water engulfed him from all sides, pushing him down into the darkness. He flailed wildly, yet there was no surface for him to struggle up to. There was only dark and cold and Trip thought with a strange detachment that this must be what madness felt like. A madness that was going to pull him under. Malcolm was dead, drowned, and now it was his turn. Somewhere, there had to be Lendon pushing his head under, not knowing that Trip had passed to another place entirely. A bad place, a mad place where he talked to people in blue overalls who had come out of nowhere before he drowned - which was happening now. Trip closed his eyes and surrendered to the cold and the darkness, knowing that it would not be long.

* * *

"What do you mean, lost?"

Jon felt Phlox' hand on his arm and only then noticed that he had taken a threatening step towards Daniels.

"I'm trying to locate his signature, Captain," Daniels said. His fingers seemed to blur as he worked on his transporting device. "If he's lost the tag, though..."

This could not be happening. Jon knew what the victim of a transporter accident would look like; during the testing phase, he had seen enough pieces of equipment mangled and turned inside out to get an idea of the resulting horror if a person were caught in a malfunction. An image appeared before his mental eye and he quickly pushed it away. This wasn't happening to Trip, it couldn't be.

"Captain," T'Pol said quietly. He turned his head to find her looking at him with unusual intensity. "If Commander Tucker is caught somewhere in the timeline, it does not necessarily mean that he-"

"I believe I've got him." Daniels' voice was strained. "He's alive, but-"

"Can you bring him back?"

Daniels frowned down at his device. "I'm trying, Captain, but there seems to be some sort of vortex rapid..."

Jon had no idea what the man was talking about and he didn't care either. "Daniels, if you lose Trip I swear I'm gonna..."

He broke off. Trip lay on the sickbay floor in a growing puddle of water, dripping wet and very still. Phlox was immediately at his side, kneeling in the salty-smelling water.

"A scanner, quick!"

T'Pol handed him a medical scanner and doctor activated it, running it over Trip's body and pale, blue-tinged face. Then he laid it aside and rolled Trip on his back, placed a hand on the unconscious man's brow and tilted his head back, beginning CPR. Jon noticed that he wasn't pausing for chest compressions, which meant that Trip's heart was still beating. Wishing he could do something to help, he watched as the doctor breathed air into Trip's lungs until the man on the floor finally gave a weak cough. Phlox sat back and helped his patient onto his side. Trip coughed again and began to retch, then leaned forward and vomited water onto the floor. Jon knelt down next to him and rubbed Trip's back, as a means of comfort and also because he wanted to feel the steady heartbeat, reassurance that Trip was still alive. The pulse he felt was anything but steady, fluttering under his fingers like a nervous bird, but it was there and Jon smiled.

"It's okay," he said and pulled the shivering man into a hug. "It's okay, buddy, we've got you now."

Trip was too weak to offer resistance, but Jon could feel him stiffen as he became aware of his surroundings.

"Wh-what..." He coughed again, his face turning even paler as he glanced around. "What's g-goin' on? What is this?"

Sensing that he was scaring Trip even more, Jon let go of him. "It's okay," he repeated and laid a hand on Trip's arm. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw Phlox approaching with a hypospray. "You're safe now."

Trip didn't seem to think so. His breathing quickened rapidly and he seemed about to go into full panic mode when Phlox stepped up from behind and pressed the hypospray against his neck. Trip's eyes widened in surprise and shock, then he went limp. Jon caught him before he fell face forward into the puddle of water that was spreading around him on the floor.

"It's for the best," Phlox said apologetically. "I don't want Mr. Tucker upsetting himself after the trauma his body has suffered."

Jon nodded and began to get to his feet. "Do you have a towel or something?"

"Of course, Captain." Phlox handed him one of the large sickbay towels and Jon wrapped it around Trip's shoulders, wincing again at the bruises that covered the half-naked body.

"Let's get him onto a bio bed."

He expected T'Pol to take Trip from his arms, but she didn't and merely assisted him by lifting Trip's legs. Together they carried the unconscious man over to the bio bed next to Malcolm's and laid him down. Phlox followed them with another towel in his hands and began to dry off the wet body as soon as they had him settled on the bed.

"Cold shock," he said with a glance at the bio monitor that had sprung to life as they laid Trip down. "We have to remove the wet clothes."

T'Pol turned away and Jon gave her a nod, silently thanking her for her discretion. As he pulled off Trip's soaked grey shorts, he noticed the temporal tag that was still clinging to wet fabric. He had no idea where the hell Trip had ended up, but there was no denying that the innocuous-looking little gadget had saved his Chief Engineer's life.

"I'll need that, Captain." Daniels had appeared at his side and nodded at the tag. Jon unclipped it and handed it to the other man.

"What happened, Daniels?"

Daniels sighed and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, looking more harassed than ever. "The timeline has suffered a lot of damage, Captain," he said. "Leaping through time isn't exactly the safest way to travel right now. Which is why I used these," he held up the temporal tag. "Just in case something like this happened."

"I can't remember you telling me to wear one myself." Jon couldn't quite suppress the caustic tone that had crept into his voice.

Instead of an answer, Daniels reached up to Jon's shoulder as if to adjust his collar. A moment later, he held another tiny black device in his hand.

"No, I didn't." The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were suppressing a smile. "I decided not to risk you refusing to wear it and attached it when you weren't looking."

Jon narrowed his eyes at the man. "I may not understand thirtieth century technology, but I'm not stupid, Daniels."

The smile which had never quite been there faded. "I never said you were, Captain. But I know that you don't exactly trust me, for which I don't blame you. I needed you to wear the tag though."

_I would have if you'd asked me to_, Jon thought but did not say. Daniels was right, he didn't trust him, and there wasn't much he could say in reply.

"What happened to Trip?" he asked instead, following Daniels as he walked over to Malcolm's bed. "Why wasn't he transported here with the rest of us?"

Daniels unclipped the temporal tag from Malcolm's shorts. "I don't know for sure, Captain. As I said, the timeline isn't exactly predictable at the moment. It's like a river whose dam has broken; there are a lot of shallows and rapids we can't calculate. My guess is that the Commander was caught in one of those rapids and flung to another point in the time space continuum, while the rest of us arrived at the destination I had programmed."

The idea was unsettling, to say the least. "You mean he could have ended up anywhere?"

"Not exactly anywhere, but... I'm afraid I can't explain all the details, Captain. It seems that Mr. Tucker was on Earth at approximately your time, in... in a large body of water."

Jon took a sharp breath. "Trip was dropped in the middle of an ocean?"

Daniels sighed. "I'm sorry, Captain. We're trying to do our best, but the damage done to the timeline was quite extensive. Our operatives are risking their lives every time we rescue a victim."

Jon held his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "I appreciate what you did," he said and it wasn't a lie, matters of trust and responsibility aside. "Thank you for rescuing my officers."

Daniels smiled a little, although there was no real humor in the expression. "You're welcome, Captain. Please let the Commander and the Lieutenant know that we deeply regret the ordeal they had to go through at the hands of the rebels. We'll make sure this kind of thing won't happen again."

_I'll hold you on that promise_. "How long is it going to take until they've regained their memories?" Jon asked aloud.

Daniels took out his transporting device, and Jon could see that his mind was already on his next assignment, God only knew where – and when. "I've given Dr. Phlox all the necessary information," he said evasively. "You might want to keep them under sedation for a while. We've noticed that the recovery is less stressful for the victims that way."

Jon remembered the panic on his officers' faces and had to admit that Daniels was probably right. Sedation was better than restraints, although he didn't like the idea of drugging the two men into compliance.

"Captain," Daniels said. Jon raised his head and saw that Daniels' hand was resting on his device, ready to activate it.

He nodded again and even allowed himself a smile. "Good luck... Crewman."

Daniels grinned a little and lifted a hand in return. "Safe journey, Captain."

With that, he was gone. Jon blinked, then shook his head and turned back to Malcolm's bio bed. As he touched Malcolm's arm, he noticed that the Lieutenant's skin was almost as cold as Trip's after he had returned from his little dip in wet hell. Jon took a blanket out of a drawer next to the bed and spread it over the still body, smiling a little when he thought of Malcolm's expression if the Englishman knew that his Captain was tucking him in. His grin quickly faded again at the sight of Malcolm's bruised, unconscious face. The dark hair was still slightly damp, tousled and falling into Malcolm's forehead. Trip was not the only one who had been through wet hell today.

Jon sighed. As much as he would have liked to stay, there were places he had to go and calls he had to make. He smiled a little at the thought. The Reeds and the Tuckers would be more than happy to see his face on the comm screen today.

* * *

An hour later on his way down to sickbay, the smile was back on Jon's face. During the last sixty minutes or so, he had watched at least six faces going from disbelief to confusion to incredulous joy as he told and re-told his story. Hoshi and Travis had wanted to go down to sickbay immediately, looking crestfallen when Jon told them that Trip and Malcolm weren't up to having visitors yet. He had noticed that Lieutenant Inga Carlsson wasn't quite as enthusiastic, although her smile at the news seemed genuine. Jon couldn't really blame her; if everything went well, Trip and Malcolm would take up where they had left off four months ago, which, of course, meant that Carlsson and Narayan were no longer needed as stand-ins. A fact made even harder by the reaction of their crewmates, who were overjoyed at the return of their former Chief Engineer and Armory Officer.

_The Captain included_, Jon added, feeling a little guilty at the thought. Maybe he could work something out for Mahish and Inga; if they wanted to stay on Enterprise, that was.

His smile widened as he remembered calling Trip's and Malcolm's families. Stuart Reed had actually apologized for his "rude remarks" of before, and from Mary's shell-shocked expression Jon concluded that this was a first. They had both thanked him profusely, Mary from behind her tissue while Reed senior rubbed his eyes, muttering something about his bloody allergies setting in.

The Tuckers had been less restrained in the response. Charlie had sniffled helplessly and Susan laughed and cried at the same time as she tried to wheedle more details out of Jon: _"Is he gonna be okay? Can we talk to him? Can we leave him a message?"_

Eventually, after many assurances that he would call as soon as Trip was feeling better, Jon had cut the connection to make a call to Starfleet Command, who were happy to learn that the two officers were back safe and relatively unharmed.

There was a bounce in his step as he left the turbolift and walked down the corridor to sickbay. As he entered, he noticed that the lights in the main room had been dimmed.

"Doctor?" he asked quietly, and a moment later Phlox appeared from behind the white privacy curtain.

"Ah, Captain." He smiled. "I take it everybody has been informed?"

Jon nodded, returning the smile. "Yes, it's all party, party, party back there." He glanced at curtains that were drawn around the two bio beds. "How are they?"

"Resting," Phlox replied, his smile fading a little. "Their injuries were more extensive than I had thought."

Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Except for the cold shock, Commander Tucker has a hairline jaw fracture and a bruised kidney, both obviously the results of an assault. Lieutenant Reed has two broken ribs and a number of large haematoma on his back and legs, where he seems to have been kicked repeatedly. They are both slightly hypothermic and malnourished."

When Phlox had finished, there was little left of Jon's high spirits. "Can I see them?"

Phlox inclined his head. "Of course, Captain."

He went back inside the closed-off space, holding open the curtain for Jon to follow him. Both patients were sleeping, clad in the long-sleeved versions of the mint-green sickbay gowns and buried under a heap of blankets to keep out the cold. A bandage was wrapped around Trip's head, supposedly to keep his injured jaw still. The pale, blue-lipped face of before had returned a slightly healthier shade of pink. Except for his head, Trip's left arm was the only part of his body not covered with blankets, resting next to him on the bed. An IV line snaked up from his hand to a pole that stood between the two beds. Jon looked at Malcolm and saw that he was also connected to the IV, thankfully unaware of this state of affairs; there were few things that nettled Malcolm more than having medical equipment attached to his body. Like Trip, he was no longer as chalky white as he had been, although he did look ill, his blackened eye glistening with some kind of gel Phlox had applied.

The doctor had followed Jon's gaze. "The Lieutenant has developed a slight fever," he said. "It seems that he suffered from pneumonia at some point during the last four months, and his lungs never entirely recovered. The antibiotics I'm giving him should take care of that, however."

Jon shook his head. "I'm not surprised he didn't have a chance to recover." Noticing Phlox' enquiring look, he added quietly, "We found them in a... mental asylum of sorts. Reminded me of a prison more than anything else. They were tied up, and there was this man, Lendon..." Jon raised his head to look at the doctor. "The one they killed, or were going to kill. He was drowning Malcolm in a vat full of water."

Phlox looked at Malcolm. "That explains the residue of liquid in Mr. Reed's lungs."

Jon sighed. "I wish I knew what was going on."

Phlox met his eyes. "All we can do is wait, Captain. I'm sure the Lieutenant and the Commander can explain what happened to them."

"How long is this treatment going to take?" Jon wanted to know.

"I'm afraid Mr. Daniels could only give me an estimate," Phlox replied. "In his experience, it took most victims about two weeks to recover. He gave me a formula and a schedule at which intervals to administer the injections. I can't say I fully understand the way the formula is supposed to work, but I'm synthesizing it as we speak."

Jon said nothing. He didn't like having to rely on Daniels and his advanced knowledge, any more than he liked the idea of mere human beings in charge of time and space. Supposedly he should be grateful that Daniels and his superiors were helping the victims, yet he couldn't help but feel resentment at the thought of injecting Malcolm and Trip with some sort of concoction that even Phlox didn't fully understand.

"Captain."

Jon met Phlox' eyes, and saw that the doctor had been reading his mind again.

"I may not comprehend all the details of thirtieth century medicine, but I can assure that I have thoroughly checked all compounds of the formula. The Commander and the Lieutenant will not be harmed by it."

"Doc, I never meant to imply you weren't doing your job. It's just that I don't feel comfortable, relying on things that I don't understand."

Phlox smiled, the corners of his mouth almost touching his ears. Jon was sure that he did it on purpose. "No offense, Captain, but I daresay you did not understand how a lizard's brain could replace your bugle's limbic cortex, yet you allowed me to go ahead with the procedure."

Jon didn't correct the doctor. "Point taken, doc. But I trust you, while I can't really say the same about Daniels."

Phlox' smile returned to a less frightening dimension. "Well, Captain, I assure you that the Lieutenant and the Commander are in good hands."

"I know." Jon smiled back, then sobered again as he looked at the two sleeping men. "Are you going to keep them sedated for a whole two weeks?"

"I don't believe I will, Captain, although Mr. Daniels suggested that it would be "easier" that way. From what I gained, though, their memories aren't going to return all at once. It's a gradual process, and I believe it is better to allow Mr. Tucker and Mr. Reed to stay awake once they have received the first five or six injections. It'll help them readjust and may even speed up their recovery."

Jon nodded. Phlox' assessment made sense, and he had never liked the idea of keeping Malcolm and Trip drugged into a mindless stupor. He tried to recover his earlier good mood - after all, Phlox had basically told him that things were going to be all right – but found that it was gone for good. Maybe, in spite of knowing better, he had believed in a miracle after all, expecting to find Malcolm and Trip sitting up and talking as he entered sickbay. The longer Jon thought about it, he had to admit that it was so. Hell, part of his mind had already rearranged next week's duty roster to include his Armory Officer and Chief Engineer.

"A little patience, Captain," Phlox said. "It's what we're going to need."

Jon raised his head. "You never told me Denobulans were telepaths, doc."

Again, the smile flashed up, and this time it did reach the ears. "As Mr. Tucker would say, I don't want to become boring."

Jon grinned a little. "No worries in that respect, doctor."

TBC...

You didn't really think I'd lose Trip for good, did you :)? Please let me know what you think!


	25. Chapter 25

Thank you very much for reviewing!

---------------------------------------------

Chapter 25

_Three white walls surrounded him, the fourth wall was missing. He had been in this room before, had run his hands over the cold, smooth walls in an attempt to find an opening, yet it was different this time. He knew, for one thing, why the wall was missing. If he tried to touch the seemingly empty space, he knew that there would be a painful shock to his body, accompanied by a shower of sparks. A force field. Like Malcolm's EM field, only a hundred times more advanced. His mind paused, trying to process the strange image of Malcolm in a room full of weapons, Malcolm working at a console. EM field. Armory. Enterprise. His mind balked at the sudden flood of information the image brought._

_He stepped as close to the invisible barrier as he could, calling out. No one came. They had dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night, barely leaving him enough time to put on his uniform. They had knocked him out and when he awoke, he was in a room (holding space?) with Malcolm and dozens of other people, all human, some of which looked very strange and talked in languages he had never heard before. All of them seemed very scared, and whenever their captors came in to take one or two of them away, there was a collective mutter of anger and fear. When it was Malcolm's turn, Trip had got up and followed them of his own free will. Their captors hadn't really cared. For some reason, they seemed to be in a great hurry, afraid of the "troops" who were preparing to enter the complex._

_He had no idea what they were talking about. He and Malcolm were separated after receiving an injection each, locked into white cells and left to their own devices. He could not tell how much time had passed since then._

_He called out again, and suddenly someone appeared before his cell. Someone who was holding a hypospray and said something about a second injection before he was "ready to go". He backed away as the man entered, retreated until his back hit the cold tiles, and before the man could grab him, he ducked under the arms that reached for him and ran..._

He awoke with a start. His hands were cold, clutching the sheets. His mind would only gradually return from the white, brightly lit place, and it took a few seconds until he realized he wasn't actually running away from anyone. The dream had never been so intense before. The holding space, the strange people, the... force field... these things had never appeared in the nightmare up until now. Images swirled through his mind – Malcolm, dragged towards a platform, his face contorted in terror... himself, following shortly after... a sudden, instant blackness... a dark backstreet that smelled of oil and dirt.

He closed his eyes, willing the images (memories?) to go away. There was a strange, familiar smell about this place, and his mind threw another bit of information at him. Sickbay. This was sickbay and he was on Enterprise. He was _back_.

Trip opened his eyes. Sickbay. He wasn't entirely sure why he would know this, but it was what this place was called. He recognized the white curtains, the blankets he was covered with, even the mint-green color of the pajamas he was wearing. How he had come to be here, he had no idea.

He shifted, and noticed that there was an IV needle inserted in the back of his hand, held in place by a piece of band-aid. But he wasn't sick, was he? Why would Phlox hook him up to the drip if he wasn't actually ill?

Phlox. Before he could stop it, another floodgate in his mind opened and inundated him with information. A round smiling face... Denobulan. Chief Medical Officer. Enterprise. That was where he was. On Enterprise, their ship. Jonathan Archer's ship. He was Commander Charles Tucker III.

This was all getting to be too much. His head seemed close to bursting, memories of River Valley and Lendon entwining with his dream – if it was a dream – and leaving him with a wild tangle of images and information. He could not deal with this right now.

Trip sat up and found that his body would only reluctantly obey him. He felt sluggish, out of touch with his surroundings. Maybe this wasn't real, maybe he was still drowning and these were the last hallucinations of a dying mind? It could be. He did feel as though he were surrounded by water; the edges of his vision were blurred and his head was light, as if he weren't getting enough oxygen.

He pushed the blankets aside and saw them fall to the floor as if in slow motion. His legs were exposed, and he was about to swing them over the edge of the bed when there was a tug in his hand. He had forgotten about the IV line. Fumbling with fingers that would not cooperate willingly, he finally managed to get a hold of the plug and pulled it out. Translucent liquid dripped out of the open line and onto his bed, but Trip didn't care. He had to get out of here and had no intention of dragging an IV pole with him. He wasn't sick, now was he?

He was about to get up again when there was another tug, more painful this time and in a quite sensitive part of his anatomy. He stopped. He hadn't noticed the small tube before, but there it was, coming out from under the hem of his one-size-fits-all gown. He followed it with his eyes until he discovered the bag discreetly placed on the bed frame. Great. Fed through an IV line and peeing in a bag. Almost afraid of what he was going to find, he lifted his gown, wincing at the sight. That didn't look right at all. He blinked, wondering if there was any way of pulling out the tube without inflicting serious damage on himself. Well, what had gone in would come out again, wouldn't it? Simple engineer's logic, and he wasn't Chief Engineer for nothing.

Trip pushed the thought aside before it could trigger another flood of unwelcome information. Gotta deal with the problem at hand. Maybe if he just-

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Commander."

Blushing bright red, he yanked down his gown. The woman who had spoken tactfully acted as if she hadn't seen and bent down to retrieve his blankets. She wasn't tall and had shoulder-length, darkly auburn hair, and he was certain that he had seen her before, although he had no idea what she was called. She was wearing a blue jumpsuit... a Starfleet uniform, his mind helpfully supplied. She smiled carefully as she spread the blankets over him again.

"It's nice to see you awake. Do you..." She faltered briefly. "Do you know who I am?"

He knew that his face was still crimson, and secretly wished she would just go away. He avoided her eyes as he shook his head.

"My name's Liz Cutler," she said. "I'm... oh dear."

She had noticed the IV line. He expected her to scold him for pulling it out, but she said nothing, merely took his hand and reinserted the plug.

"That's better," she said and smiled at him. "Do you know where you are?"

He tried to speak, but discovered that his throat was to dry to produce a sound. She handed him a glass of water from his bedside table.

"Here."

He took a sip. The cold water in his mouth was very real, very sharp, and he realized that this could not be a dream or a hallucination. He was awake and talking to Liz Cutler, whose name and face were cruelly familiar although it eluded his mind exactly how he came to know her.

"I... I'm on Enterprise," he said finally. "In sickbay."

She broke into a smile. "That's right. If you'll excuse me for a moment, Commander, I have to let the doctor know you're awake."

"Wait!" His voice was still not back to normal, and he had to clear his throat before he continued. "W-What's goin' on? Where's Malcolm?"

"He's right next to you, Commander," another voice said from somewhere behind the white curtains. A moment later, a portly man appeared next to his bed and Trip's mind immediately prompted that this was Phlox, Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer and resident Denobulan. The man – Phlox – smiled at him.

"Back with the living, I see. I wasn't expecting the sedative to wear off so quickly, but it's good to see you awake, Commander."

It felt strange to be called that, even though he knew it was his title. Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed. That was Malcolm. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Armory Officer.

Something Phlox had said caught Trip's attention and he raised his head. "You had me sedated?" he asked hoarsely.

The doctor nodded. "Yes, for quite a while, actually."

"Why? What's goin' on?"

Phlox and Liz Cutler shared a glance before the doctor looked back at him. "Commander... I realize that all of this must be very confusing for you. Maybe it would be best to focus on your well-being for the moment. I take it you remember who I am?"

Trip nodded. "You're Phlox. And I'd really like to know what's goin' on. How did we come to be here? What... what happened to Lendon?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liz Cutler reaching for a hypospray, but Phlox gave her a diminutive shake of the head before he turned back to Trip.

"Maybe the Captain should explain everything to you, Commander. You remember Captain Archer, I suppose?"

A face appeared before Trip's mental eye, along with more information that seemed to come out of the blue: Jonathan Archer, Captain of the Enterprise. Jon, his friend. The man who had come to get them out of River Valley.

He nodded at Phlox. "I'd like to talk to the Cap'n, if that's okay."

The word had come out even before his mind supplied that this was what he usually called Jonathan Archer. Phlox seemed to have noticed as well, for he smiled.

"Certainly, Commander."

He left, followed by Liz Cutler, who pulled the white curtains closed behind her. Trip lay back on the pillows. The movement brought a new wave of dizziness and he wondered if it was a result of the medication the doctor had mentioned. No one had answered his question why he had been sedated, come to think of it. Trip glanced down at the IV. Maybe he should just pull it back out. God only knew what they were pumping into him.

Exhaling slowly, he closed his eyes. If he wasn't sure whether he could trust his own mind, how would he know whether to trust these people? How could he tell whether any of this was real?

_Too much_. Trip silenced the voice in his mind telling him to run for it while he still could. It might be a good idea to listen to what Jonathan Archer had to say, that much was obvious from the confused jumble in his mind. If there was one person he could trust, it was Jon. And Malcolm, of course.

He sighed. Right now, it seemed, there was little he could do but just lie here and wait.

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	26. Chapter 26

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Chapter 26

"How do we know you're telling us the truth?"

Jonathan Archer and Trip both turned their heads. Malcolm had spoken little since the Captain had arrived, had hardly said anything at all. He had listened to the Captain's story in silence, and at some points Trip wondered if Malcolm was still too groggy to fully comprehend what Archer was telling them. Maybe the chaos of memories and information was too much, and he was merely lying there letting the words flow past him without really listening. Trip would not have blamed him. Malcolm's precise, almost hard voice told a different story, though. He had understood very well what the Captain was saying; he just wasn't happy about it.

The Captain considered him for a moment. "Well, you're here, for one thing. You're no longer on Earth."

"There are ways of altering someone's memory," Malcolm said quietly, but with a decidedly hostile undertone. "You might as well have planted wrong information in our minds about all of this." He nodded jerkily at their surroundings. "We have no way of finding out whether we're no longer on Earth and have traveled more than a hundred years into the future, as you say. You're keeping us in here, sedate us-" Malcolm broke off, obviously struggling for a calmer tone as he continued. "I'm not sure whether I can believe you or not."

Trip remained silent. He sensed that Jonathan Archer was waiting for him to say something, maybe even tell Malcolm that he was mistaken. Yet he couldn't. The Captain's story did make sense, in a strange and absurd way, and every memory that returned to him seemed to confirm what Archer had said. But that, of course, was what they would be aiming at. If someone had indeed altered their memories, they would be careful not to leave any inconsistencies for them to discover. No, he couldn't really tell Malcolm to hell with his paranoia. Back in the... other time, he had relied on Malcolm's instincts more than once, and it was a good thing that he had. He was ready to do it again.

Archer sighed. "I can see why you would think so. Maybe I should have waited a few more days before telling you all this, but-"

"You said that you had to keep us sedated for the last six days," Trip said. Part of his mind objected that he would not normally interrupt the Captain, but how could he tell what was normal and what was not? Maybe paranoia was the only possible response to this situation. "Why is that? Why couldn't you just tell us right from the beginning?"

"Dr. Phlox and I agreed that it would be... easier if you had regained at least part of your memories before waking up. As I said, you've been getting injections for the past six days to remove the chemical inhibitors that were planted in your brains. The doctor said that it should be another six or seven days before the process is complete."

"Assuming that you're telling us the truth," Malcolm said. "Why didn't you come to get us earlier? Why wait for several months?"

There was a certain accusation in his voice, and from the expression on Archer's face it hadn't gone unnoticed.

"We would have," the Captain said quietly. "You... were missed, by all of us. But we had no idea where you were. We thought you were dead."

A moment's silence followed. There was an undertone in the Captain's voice that would have been hard to fake, and it reminded Trip of the way Archer had hugged him when he had first returned from that horrible place where he had almost drowned. Jon, his mind corrected him. This man was Jon to him, not Archer. And he was his friend.

"So how did you find out where we were?" he asked softly.

Jon looked at him, obviously surprised by Trip's less-than-hostile tone. "Maybe we can leave that question for another time."

"I don't think so," Malcolm said. There was nothing conciliatory about his tone, although Trip knew that most of it was probably just Malcolm being scared out of his mind. "You said you were going to answer all of our questions, back at River Valley. Well, now's your chance to do so."

The Captain hesitated for a moment, then he nodded. "Fair enough. I told you that Daniels came here to let me know that he had found you. Up until then, we had no idea where you were."

Malcolm nodded in acceptance, and Jon continued. "Daniels was able to locate you because you created a disturbance in the timeline. It appears that you somehow caused the death of Paul Lendon."

He said the name very neutrally, as if to distance himself from the person as well as the fact that he had been killed.

"You mean, we killed him?" Trip asked after a small pause.

"We don't know," the Captain answered. "All we know is that Lendon was dead at a point when he should have been alive, and that it happened because you were present at the time. It could have been an accident," he added, although he didn't sound convinced.

Trip was silent. Technically it could have been an accident. Lendon might have slipped on the wet tiles and broken his neck, or he might have suffered a sudden coronary attack and died. He might even have slipped, hit his head on the way down and drowned in the vat he had prepared for Malcolm. Malcolm, with his hands tied, wouldn't have been able to pull him out in time. Classic case of poetic justice. It sounded like the version of events he would like to believe in.

Malcolm was avoiding his eyes, and Trip knew that the other man was thinking along similar lines. Malcolm didn't believe in poetic justice any more than he did.

"We prevented Lendon's death by intervening when we did," the Captain said. "The timeline's been restored."

_Yeah, and everybody lived happily ever after. Except for Chayton and Toby and the others who were tortured by Lendon for another ten or twenty years._

"Do you know what happened to Lendon after we were gone?" Malcolm asked quietly.

"I asked Hoshi to try and find out. She had to dig through a lot of old newspaper archives until she found an article that mentioned the incident. It seems that Lendon was sacked after you'd escaped a second time. Shortly after, Social Services got an anonymous tip that River Valley were mistreating their patients and using them as slave labor." Jon looked at him, and Trip averted his eyes. There wasn't much he could add to that. After a moment, the Captain continued. "They closed the place down only a year later. It was quite the scandal at the time."

"What happened to the patients?" Trip asked.

"They were evaluated and sent to other asylums, except for those who were cleared for discharge. It seems that River Valley had kept a lot of them even though there was no medical reason to."

Like Chayton, who had been no more a lunatic than Trip or Malcolm. Trip thought of Toby, who had considered River Valley his home, despite of the miserable life he led there. He must have been devastated to be sent away.

It was ironic, in a way, that Lendon should be the one responsible for the exposure of River Valley's system of exploitation. Of course, he had only done it to get his revenge, not because he gave a shit about the patients. Then again, maybe it wasn't him after all who had delivered the tip. Helen had said something about calling Social Services when Lendon and his orderlies had dragged them away. Maybe it had been her, although it seemed unlikely that she had somehow found out about the "work program". He supposed that in the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter. She and everybody else, people he had talked to not so long ago, had been dead for more than fifty years... if the Captain's story was true. And Trip had little doubt left that it was.

He glanced at Malcolm. The other man's face was tense, but the anger of before had disappeared. Mostly, Malcolm looked tired, and Trip knew just how he felt. His mind was brimming with memories, swirling with images that were both old and new, and he knew that it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge. All he really wanted right now was to go back to sleep and forget about timelines, River Valley, Enterprise and sorting out which belonged where. He was just so damn tired.

Jon laid a hand on his arm, and Trip raised his head to find the Captain smiling at him. "It's good to have you back, Trip," he said, then turned to Malcolm. "And you. We missed you."

Malcolm smiled very slightly in response. "Thank you... sir."

The Captain inclined his head in acknowledgement, both of the address and its implications. "Get some rest. I'll be back later to check on you."

They nodded and the Captain left, resting his hand briefly on each of their shoulders. Trip watched him go, remembering that this was something Jon would do: a quick pat on the shoulder or the back, sometimes even a hug when someone returned from a long absence. Physical contact came naturally to Jon, and always had.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked quietly from the other bed.

Trip turned his head. "Yeah?"

Malcolm glanced at the curtain the Captain had closed when he left. "Do you believe him?"

Trip nodded. "Yeah, I do. I think I remember too much not to believe him."

The statement sounded strange in his ears, but Malcolm didn't seem to think so. "Yes, I believe I do, too... Commander."

It drew a smile from Trip to hear the title from Malcolm, of all people, although he remembered that Malcolm would often call him "Commander" even when they were off duty.

"I think you should call me "Trip"... Loo-tenant."

Malcolm winced. "Don't do that."

"Only if you drop the "Commander", Loo-tenant."

"Well, if you insist, sir, then I shall call you "Trip", sir."

Trip rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help grinning. Some things, it seemed, hadn't changed even now that they were back. He was beginning to remember more about Malcolm; that he was fond of explosions, that he liked to listen to classical music and strange British hard rock, that he spread peanut butter on his pancakes. But these things only added the final touches to the Malcolm Trip had known all along, the man he had met in a dark and smelly backstreet about a hundred years ago. He smiled inwardly. Now that sounded weird, even though it was technically the truth.

"You do that," he said quietly.

Malcolm leaned back on his pillow, pulling up his blanket until he was covered up to the chin. "I think I'm going get some sleep," he said. "I'm knackered."

Trip nodded and lay back himself, turning onto his side. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of asking Phlox if he could take a shower; he was sure that the doctor had taken care of their ablutions while they had been sedated, but there was a difference between bedside hygiene and the luxury of a long, hot shower. Well, maybe later. Give him something to look forward to when he woke up again. Right now, he was feeling far too tired to do anything but lie here and let his thoughts drift.

Suddenly there was a very faint shudder, and Trip smiled a little. His engine was in good working order, it seemed, and it was reassuring that he would recognize the transition from Warp 2 to Warp 3 just like he used to. Before. Engineering appeared before his mental eye, and he walked his usual route in his mind, climbing the steps to the upper level. Yes, everything was there... the controls, the displays, the steady hum he was so used to... he remembered all of it. He smiled. He might not have recalled Liz Cutler's name, but he knew how to do his job.

The smile lingered on his lips as he fell asleep.

* * *

_Someone shook him. It was Lendon, had to be. He was back in seclusion and there was a knife poised over him, its blade flecked with blood. Lendon grinned and shook him harder, and suddenly Trip was no longer lying on his back but floating, tossed back and forth by dark waves, pulled under and pushed into cold emptiness..._

"... wake up," a voice said, and he was no longer floating. There was a soft surface under him and he was dry and warm. Hadn't he been drowning? And wasn't Malcolm dead, his body half immersed in the water, floating face-down? "Wake up, Trip," the voice repeated and Trip recognized a familiar British accent. Malcolm sounded hoarse and tired and very much alive.

He opened his eyes. He was in his sickbay bed and there was Malcolm standing next to him, clad in his green patient gown, his hair mussed from sleep. One of his hands was resting on Trip's shoulder.

"You were dreaming," Malcolm said quietly as he pulled his hand back.

Trip nodded. It hadn't felt like a dream; the details had been far too vivid and ugly. "Yeah," he said. "I... I was back there."

Malcolm didn't ask where. "Want some water?" he asked, and Trip nodded.

"Yeah, thanks."

Malcolm took a glass of water from the bedside table and gave it to him. Sitting up, Trip took a sip, then handed the glass back.

"Sorry if I woke you up."

"You didn't." Malcolm glanced away. "I wasn't asleep for long."

Trip said nothing, sensing that Malcolm wasn't in the mood for conversation about nightmares and sleeping problems. And neither was he, to tell the truth. "How did you get out of bed?" he asked instead.

Malcolm frowned, then, realizing what Trip was referring to, grinned a little, although it turned out more like a tired grimace. "It seems that Phlox took them out while we were asleep."

Trip shifted and noticed that Malcolm was right; the catheter was gone, as was the IV line. Good. He hated not being in control of his own body functions.

He watched as Malcolm padded back to his own bed on bare feet. His movement were sluggish, and he seemed to have difficulties climbing back in.

"You okay?" Trip asked.

Malcolm awkwardly pulled the blankets back into place and settled down on his pillow, bunching it up so that his head was slightly propped up. "Yes, I'm fine."

Trip sighed. He didn't need his returning memories to know that "fine" could mean everything from "peachy" to "my intestines are dragging on the floor, but it only hurts when I breathe". "Malcolm."

It was Malcolm's turn to sigh. "My ribs are... aching a little. It's not that bad, but I can't really get comfortable either."

Trip was silent for a moment. The memory of Malcolm curled up on the floor, trying to protect himself from Lendon's kicks, was a little too close to his dream. It was getting hard to distinguish what was what – memories, dreams, figments of his imagination. They all seemed to overlap and blur into each other, and he was no longer sure if some of the things he remembered had really happened at all. Maybe this was how insanity started. Maybe it was nothing more than an overload of information.

He pushed the thought aside before it could take root. "D'you want me to ask Phlox to give you somethin'?"

Malcolm shook his head, his eyes half-closed. "No, thank you. It's probably just..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but Trip knew what he had been about to say. If it were only for his aching ribs, Malcolm would have no trouble falling asleep.

He lay back on his own pillow and pulled the blanket up to his chin. "Thanks for wakin' me up," he said softly.

"That's all right," came the sleepy reply, and Trip nodded to no one in particular. He was still tired, and the blanket seemed warm and heavy, luring him back into sleep. No, he thought, shaking his head a little as if that would help keeping him awake. He didn't want to go back to oblivion, back to the dreams. After six days of sleeping, it shouldn't be too hard to stay awake for a while.

Reality. That was what it came down to, really. He just wanted to stay with reality for a while. He had dreamed enough to last him for a good long time.

Trip reached out for a padd someone had left on his bedside table, switched it on and began to read.

TBC...

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	27. Chapter 27

Thank you for your reviews!

---------------------------------------------

Chapter 27

"Coffee, with cream."

Brown liquid was poured out of the dispenser, followed by a brief spurt of white. Trip took the steaming cup out of the slot and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent. He already felt more awake than he had all morning. As he turned around, he found that a woman with dark, curly hair and a spattering of freckles was waiting in line behind him. His eyes immediately dropped to her uniform pips. An ensign. Ensign... McCarthy. That was it. Ensign Laura McCarthy from Hydroponics. He smiled at her, muttering a greeting.

"Commander," she replied, seemingly oblivious to his initial confusion. Maybe she really hadn't noticed, although Trip couldn't be sure. Some crewmembers, especially those from his department, went to great lengths to pretend that there were no awkward pauses, no quick glances at someone's rank emblems, no hesitations.

Cup in hand, he walked over to the breakfast buffet and surveyed the choices on offer. He was beginning to remember which foods he used to like and which he didn't, although the idea of disliking any kind of food seemed strangely foreign. He supposed there was a lesson lurking in there somewhere; he had starved on the streets, had rummaged through trashcans for a morsel of edible garbage, and had come out a better person. Right. Fact was that he didn't care; all he knew was that he would eat pretty much anything on the table, which made it hard to choose.

"The croissants are pretty good," a female voice said next to him, and Trip looked up. Hoshi was standing there, smiling at him. "Chef's going through a French phase. We had _foie gras_ yesterday, and _boeuf bourguignon_ the day before that."

Trip picked up a tray and returned her smile. With Hoshi, there was no need to check her rank pips first. "I say whatever floats his boat, as long as meatloaf's still on the menu."

Hoshi laughed and took one of the croissants out of the basket. "I think it's time we introduced you to the finer cuisine, Trip." She put it on his plate, adding another for good measure. "Here. You're going to love them."

He grinned. "Thanks."

She nodded and began filling her own tray with an assortment of toast, fruit and bacon. "Good to see the doctor let you go," she said.

"He was probably glad to see the back of us. Malcolm's been pesterin' him when he's gonna be able to return to duty."

Hoshi raised her eyebrows. "And you've been an angel of patience, of course."

Trip chuckled. "Well, most of the time," he said, knowing perfectly well that Hoshi didn't believe a word of it.

"Ri-ight." She started for a table in the corner where Travis was sitting, about to dig into his usual heap of scrambled eggs. "Come on."

Trip followed her, grateful once again that Hoshi – and Travis - were such uncomplicated company. There had been no dramatics when the two of them had first come to sickbay, only a hug from Hoshi and a bone-rattling clap on the shoulder from Travis. Sensing that neither Trip nor Malcolm were in the mood to talk much, the two ensigns had led most of the conversation, filling them in on everything that had happened. It was almost as if he and Malcolm had never been gone at all.

"Morning." Travis grinned at him across his scrambled eggs as they took a seat at the table. "Rumor had it the doc kicked you out of sickbay last night."

"He didn't exactly kick us out." Trip picked up one of the croissants and took a bite. "We're released to our quarters, though, as long as we come back to sickbay every day for a check-up."

_And the psychological screening_, he added in his mind. Counseling sessions, Phlox had called them, but there was more to it than that, Trip knew. Starfleet wanted to know if he and Malcolm were "stable", make sure that every screw in their brains was nice and tight. There would be endless questions and tests, and no duty until the final evaluation had passed muster with Starfleet Command. Of course, there was no guarantee that it would pass muster at all.

"Where's Malcolm?" Travis asked. "I didn't see him all morning."

"I think he had an appointment with the doc for 0800," Trip said. He didn't specify what kind of appointment; there was no need for Hoshi and Travis to know about the "counseling". If they suspected what Malcolm's visit to sickbay was about, they didn't comment on it.

"How's the protocol coming?" Travis wanted to know, looking at Hoshi.

Trip frowned. He had no idea what Travis was talking about, and there was a good chance that it was something he was supposed to know, maybe part of everyday life on Enterprise. His mind drew a blank, though. Trip lowered his head and pretended to be intent on shoveling scrambled eggs onto his fork. Maybe it would come back to him as he listened to their conversation.

Hoshi sighed. "It's not exactly a page-turner, but I'm getting there." She looked at Trip. "It's the Ng'wai government. They're willing to let us visit, but not until we've studied their guest protocol. Which is about four hundred pages long," she added with a raised eyebrow.

Trip remembered Jon telling him about the Ng'wai; Enterprise was currently orbiting their homeworld, but so far, no member of the crew had set foot on the planet. He smiled at Hoshi, wondering if her multiple communications talents included telepathy. She seemed to have known exactly what he was thinking.

"They've got protocols for everything. I mean, really everything." Travis shook his head. "When we first contacted them, they gave us permission to enter orbit, but only after we fired our weapons twice and did a barrel roll. Their standard protocol for first contacts, they said. You know," he picked up a slice of bacon and waved it at them for emphasis, "sometimes I wonder if they're not just taking the piss. I mean, I can't see Andorians or, say, Klingons jumping through hoops just to be allowed into orbit."

Hoshi chuckled. "Don't let the Captain hear that. He's not going to be happy as it is when he hears about the dress code."

"Dress code?" Trip repeated.

Hoshi nodded. "Yes, there's a strict dress code guests are expected to follow. The Ng'wai have a color code, and the guests are asked to wear certain colors to indicate their rank or profession. Including make-up," she added with a small grin.

Travis raised his eyebrows at her. "You're kidding, right?"

Hoshi shook her head. "Nope. According to their protocol, you're a Flight Master. You'd have to paint your forehead red and put two orange streaks in your hair."

"No way!" Travis' expression was so horrified that Trip laughed.

"Green forehead, black streaks," Hoshi said to him. "That's what Construction Masters have to wear."

It was Travis' turn to laugh when Trip involuntarily raised a hand to his forehead. "What about you, Hoshi?" he asked.

Hoshi smiled. "Blue forehead and a red bandanna. Women don't have to dye their hair, according to protocol."

"What about the Cap'n?" Trip asked.

"He's Master of the Ship, so he'll have to wear a special headgear. No dyed hair, either, although he might want to consider growing a beard. It's considered a sign of maturity."

Travis shook his head. "Next thing you're telling me that the Security guys have to show up in tutus."

Hoshi laughed. "No, not quite. Security officers have orange foreheads, blue hair, and a green cord tied to their left ankle."

"Is there something I should know about, Hoshi?" a familiar British voice asked. Malcolm was standing next to their table, holding a breakfast tray. Like Trip, he was in civilian clothing; a rare occasion, Trip remembered. Usually, Malcolm would wear his Starfleet uniform even when he was off duty.

Hoshi grinned at him. "Don't worry, you'd look fine. Sit down," she added when Malcolm remained standing.

"Thanks." Malcolm took a seat and Trip saw that he had chosen pancakes for his breakfast, along with a side serving of peanut butter. He smiled inwardly. Everyday things like food choices, names, even clothing preferences had become important to him, and whenever he recognized one of them he felt strangely relieved. He had even caught himself counting the tables as he entered the messhall, wanting to confirm that it were indeed no more and no less than he remembered.

"So, why would I want to dye my hair blue and tie a green cord to my ankle?" Malcolm asked and cocked an eyebrow at Hoshi.

"We were just discussing the Ng'wai guest protocol,"she said. "They have a color code for each profession, different clothes, make-up and so on."

From his expression, Malcolm was picturing a Security team with blue hair in his mind. "What about side arms? Are they allowed?"

"I'm not sure," Hoshi said. "The protocol did say something about ceremonial swords for the Armament Masters."

"Now that sounds reasonable." Malcolm rolled a peanut-buttered pancake and took a bite. "Although I hope Lieutenant Carlsson will find a way to bring phase pistols as well."

Trip's smile faded. Of course, Malcolm and he wouldn't be part of the away team. He noticed Hoshi watching him and quickly dropped his eyes to his plate.

"Oh, I'm sure she will," Travis said in an overly casual tone of voice. Trip looked up just in time to catch Hoshi winking at him and Malcolm.

"Travis has been asking me to give him Swedish lessons," she said with a sweet smile. "Right, Travis?"

Travis blushed and scowled at her. "_Var tyst_," he said, and Hoshi laughed.

"Your pronunciation's getting better, but I wouldn't try that one on Inga."

Malcolm was smirking, and Trip grinned. He had noticed that Travis became unusually flustered whenever Lieutenant Inga Carlsson was mentioned, and of course Hoshi ribbed him mercilessly about it.

Travis had just opened his mouth, about to launch to his defense when a crackle from the intercom announced an incoming ship-wide message. "All senior officers to the bridge,"Archer's voice said over the speaker. "Ambassador Salmar wants to make an announcement."

The two ensigns immediately laid down their cutlery and napkins and got up. "More protocol, I suppose," Hoshi said with an apologetic smile. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Yeah," Travis said, picking a last slice of bacon off his plate. "See you later, guys."

Trip watched them leave, the door of the messhall sliding shut behind them. He knew that he could have accompanied them if he wanted; Jon wouldn't have told him to leave the bridge. But it wouldn't feel right to do so; not when all he could do was keep out of everyone's way and watch.

He glanced at Malcolm and caught the other man looking at him. Malcolm had made no move to get up either. A moment of awkward silence followed, then Trip cleared his throat.

"So," he said. "You finished with the doc?"

It was a stupid question and Trip knew it the second it had left his mouth, but Malcolm seemed grateful for his attempt at conversation.

"Yes. Phlox only wanted me to take the C and D Test, and it seems that my scores met with expectations," he said with a trace of dryness.

"C and D Test?" Trip asked. The name didn't sound even remotely familiar.

"Cognitive and Decision Test. It's a test all Starfleet officers have to take every six months."

"Oh," Trip said, avoiding Malcolm's eyes. He hated this, coming across things that were supposed to be stored away somewhere in his brain.

"I didn't remember either," Malcolm said quietly. "Phlox told me about it."

Trip raised his head and saw his own feelings reflected on Malcolm's face. Even their positions mirrored each other; they were both sitting there with their arms crossed in front of their chests, barely touched plates of food on the table in front of them. It almost drew a chuckle from Trip, although it wasn't really funny.

_It's like we don't belong here_. He'd had this feeling before, even though everyone was doing their best to make them feel welcome. He felt isolated; an intruder in an environment that was no longer really his. Or maybe it was his, and his brain only refused to remember. It didn't make much of a difference either way.

This time, it was Malcolm who cleared his throat. "I'm going to the gym when I'm done here. Would you..." He hesitated, then picked up again. "Would you like to drop by my quarters this afternoon? I seem to _remember_ I've got a bottle of scotch stashed away somewhere."

The last part was delivered with a smirk, and Trip rolled his eyes at the bad pun. But he knew what Malcolm's offer was about and was glad to accept it. "I'd like that."

"Good," Malcolm said simply.

Trip picked a piece of mango from Hoshi's abandoned plate and ate it. He was almost surprised at its sweet taste. "I'll see you then."

Malcolm nodded.

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	28. Chapter 28

We're getting close to the end... thank you very much for reviewing!

If you'd like to know more about the young man living in Malcolm's quarters, please check out my story "Stinky" (posted here and at the Warp 5 Complex).

This chapter is for Glory1863, who named Watchdog and taught Porthos about saving the pride :).

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Chapter 28

Malcolm's quarters were immaculately neat, just like Trip remembered them. Malcolm's hair was still slightly damp as he opened the door; apparently, he had only just showered and changed after his work-out.

The Englishman smiled and stepped back so Trip could enter. "Please."

Trip followed him inside, and almost stumbled when something warm and soft brushed against his leg. He glanced down and found that Malcolm's roommate, a young calico cat, was greeting him in the feline fashion, rubbing his speckled head against Trip's pants.

"Hey Stinky," Trip said, bent down and picked up the cat. "Looks like someone's grown while we were gone. This guy used to fit into my hand."

"I hardly recognized him myself," Malcolm said. "Travis has been taking care of him for me, and he said that it was more like feeding a small tiger. Take a seat," he added, nodding at the small sofa.

"Thanks." Trip carried Stinky over to the sofa and lowered himself onto the cushions, the cat settling on his lap as soon as he was sitting. "Well, growin' boys need their food, don't they?"

Malcolm grinned as he returned from his kitchen unit with two glasses and a bottle. "I suppose so. Although I hope that he won't grow too much, or these quarters won't be big enough for the two of us."

Trip scratched the cat behind the ears, smiling at Stinky's trademark lawn mower-like purr. "He's got large paws."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Yes, he does."

"Large paws usually mean that a cat's going to be big when it's fully grown."

Malcolm sighed and opened the bottle. "Well, at least he's house-trained now."

Trip grinned. Despite Malcolm's air of long-suffering patience, he could see right through the man. Malcolm was more than happy to have his feline friend back.

Petting Stinky, Trip watched as Malcolm poured them a glass of scotch each, and remembered the day when he had come here to share a nightcap and had discovered a small kitten hidden in Malcolm's locker. Of course, Malcolm couldn't keep it a secret for long that he had smuggled a cat aboard, and soon Stinky had been officially introduced to the rest of the crew, including Porthos. Poor mutt had been horrified to find himself face to face with a tiny, puffed-up ball of spitting and hissing trouble.

Trip grinned, satisfied that he remembered the encounter down to every detail. Eventually, Porthos had backed away, tail between his legs, and Stinky had presented his shoulder to the dog, beginning to lick it in an almost regal manner. From that day on, there was no doubt who was the "superior officer" of the two.

"Here," Malcolm said and handed Trip one of the glasses. Ice cubes tinkled against each other inside the amber liquid.

"Thanks." Trip accepted the glass, waiting until Malcolm had lifted his as well. "Why don't you give us a toast?"

Malcolm thought about it for a moment, then he raised his glass. "To times to come."

Trip smiled, clinked his glass against Malcolm's and took a sip. The scotch left a burning trail in his throat.

"Good stuff."

Malcolm nodded. "I won it in a bet."

"What was the bet about?"

A brief hesitation. "I have absolutely no idea," Malcolm said then. He swirled the liquid in his glass, creating a tiny whirlpool. "I'm sure it'll come back to me, though." He raised his head. "Phlox said that everything will come back, eventually. It's only a matter of time."

"Yeah," Trip nodded. "It's kinda strange though..." He trailed off, not sure how to put his thoughts into words. Something about a sense of belonging, he supposed, although that would sound terribly schmaltzy, said out loud.

"Sometimes..." Malcolm hesitated as well. "You know, sometimes I feel as if I have the memories of two different people. There's Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, and... well, I don't know. I can't say that I feel like I am the same person I was back there."

"Maybe we're not," Trip said, taking another sip from his glass. The scotch was strong and he could feel his head growing light. He should probably slow down a little. "I mean, it's hard to grasp, that we were alive in a time when we weren't even born. Us, I mean, Commander Charles Tucker and Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. Maybe those two people back there _were_ someone else, and we only have their memories."

"I don't think T'Pol would agree with you on that," Malcolm said, staring into his glass.

"T'Pol doesn't officially agree that there is such a thing as time travel. An' no one really knows how it works. I don't even think Daniels really understands it."

"In that case, the rebels who abducted us do have a point. People should keep their hands off things they don't understand. I don't like the idea of the fate of the universe in the hands of amateurs."

Trip grinned at Malcolm's dry tone. "Me neither."

Stinky, who had been dozing, opened his eyes and gave Trip a searching look, as if trying to remember whose lap he had fallen asleep in. He yawned and suddenly rolled over, presenting them his orange-and-black underside.

Trip laughed. "Someone's feelin' cuddly today."

He began to stroke the cat's soft belly, wondering what Malcolm's little smirk was about when suddenly eighteen claws buried themselves in his skin, and two strong hindlegs began to kick his forearm.

"Ow! Stinky!"

Malcolm was laughing so hard that some of his scotch sloshed over the rim of the glass. Trip managed to disentangle his hand from the cat's grip, to Stinky's obvious disappointment.

"That was sneaky," he said to both of them.

Malcolm grinned, not in the least repentant. "He always does that when he wants to play fight. Though I usually wrap a towel around my hand first."

Trip gave him a mock scowl. "Well, it's not as if I knew that I was gonna be mauled here."

Stinky, resigning to the fact that Trip wasn't going to "play fight", levered himself to his feet and arched his back, then jumped off the couch and walked over to his feeding dish.

Malcolm looked after him with an almost wistful expression. "He really has grown, hasn't he?"

Trip was about to make a quip about Malcolm sounding like a doting father when he noticed the look in the other man's eyes.

"Yeah," he said instead. "Feels like we were gone a lot longer, doesn't it?"

Malcolm nodded. "It must've been longer than four months. I didn't really keep track of the weeks, back at River Valley, but I'm sure we were there longer than that."

"Daniels told Jon that we might've been there for more than four months," Trip said. "Something about time not bein' a linear constant. It's possible that we spent a few more months there than actually passed in this time."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'll admit that I find all of this hard to understand. I'm not even sure how they detected our presence." He met Trip's eyes. "Did or didn't we cause Lendon's death? Because if we didn't, it means that they could not have detected us. Which means that we're still back in 2048."

Trip sighed. "Well, we are here, that's for sure. Maybe we switched timelines, if that's possible. To be frank, I've no idea."

"A knot in time." Malcolm chuckled. "T'Pol would have a field day with the logical implications."

"I can see why the Vulcans refuse to believe in time travel," Trip said. "It's not exactly somethin' you can explain logically."

"It's equally illogical to deny the existence of something just because you don't understand it." Malcolm took a sip from his glass. "It reminds of the time when humans believed Earth was flat or denied evolution."

"Don't let T'Pol hear that."

Malcolm smirked. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Trip leaned back on the couch, enjoying the feeling of relaxation that came with the scotch. The enforced inactivity of the last few days had left him feeling tense and restless, to a point where he would wander aimlessly through the corridors just so he wouldn't have to sit in his quarters. Now, the feeling seemed to have passed, at least for the moment.

"I wonder when they'll let us go back on duty," Malcolm said suddenly, and Trip grinned a little. There were times when he wondered if the other man could read his mind.

"Soon as they know that we're not suddenly gonna snap and short-circuit the life-support systems or somethin'."

The corners of Malcolm's mouth went down. "It should be obvious that we're okay to go back to work."

"Are we?" Trip regarded him for a long moment, and wasn't surprised when Malcolm avoided his eyes.

"Well, our memories have returned, haven't they?"

"They can't take any risks, Malcolm." Trip wished it would have sounded more convincing. "If we don't remember critical details..."

"A simple tour of the Armory and Engineering should make sure that we do," Malcolm said a little harshly. "Instead they're treating us like bloody lunatics."

Silence ensued after the last word. Trip lifted his glass to his lips, just so his hands would have something to do, and, to be perfectly honest, so he wouldn't have to look Malcolm in the eyes.

"Actually, I don't really mind Phlox' tests that much," Malcolm said after a while. His anger seemed to have seeped away, leaving only weariness in its wake. "I just hate the idea of... of being recalled to Earth, and..."

He trailed off, but Trip finished the sentence for him. "And goin' back to River Valley, or its modern equivalent?"

Malcolm nodded.

"That's not gonna happen," Trip said. Again, it didn't sound convincing. "I mean..."

He had no idea what he had wanted to say, and simply let the words hang in the air. If they were recalled... would it matter to Starfleet that they weren't crazy, at least not in the jumping-at-shadows and I-know-they're-after-me sense of the word? Or was there a nice care home waiting for them back on Earth, as Malcolm seemed to believe there was?

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not going back," he said quietly. "That's one thing I know for sure."

Trip nodded. He didn't suppose that any Starfleet institution would be like River Valley; surely – hopefully – such things no longer existed in the twenty-second century. But it wouldn't make a difference, not really. He wasn't going back either. And while they were at it...

"I'd rather leave Starfleet." There, he'd said it.

"Me too." Malcolm avoided his eyes as he said it, almost as if he were ashamed. "Even if they say it's only temporary."

Trip watched Malcolm carefully. There was something he wanted to ask him; something that had, in fact, been on his mind even before they had returned to Enterprise, and Malcolm's closed-down expression when he mentioned River Valley had fed his suspicion.

"Mal..."

"Yes?"

Trip played with his glass, wondering if he should just leave it alone. God knew there was enough for them to muddle through already. And, although it was hard to admit, he was a little afraid of the answer to his question... in the unlikely case that he got one, that was.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked, and Trip raised his head. He could see that Malcolm would not let it go, and that he would see right through it if Trip tried to prevaricate.

"It's just that... when you were in seclusion, did Lendon..."

Malcolm only looked at him, and Trip wished more than anything else that he had kept his big mouth shut. It was too late for that, of course.

"It's just that I was wonderin'... I was wonderin' if you told me the truth when you said he only slapped you."

Malcolm was silent for a moment, his face unreadable, and Trip expected the shutters to bang down any moment. Then, to his surprise, Malcolm's lips twitched a little.

"Actually, it was his using me as an ashtray that I found to be more unpleasant."

Trip opened his mouth, but Malcolm raised a hand before he could say anything.

"I know what you were referring to, and yes, I did tell you the truth. There was some... innuendo, and I'm not sure what he would've done if I'd been taken there a second time, but as it is, that was all that happened, thankfully." He gave Trip a long look. "I could ask you the same thing, you know."

The implied question didn't exactly surprise Trip, although he would have preferred not to answer it. That was something else about time travel; the temporal distance made it easier to pretend that he had almost forgotten about the things that had happened at River Valley.

"Trip?"

Trip sighed. "He was going to," he said; if they were going for complete honesty here, he might as well admit it. "He... had a knife..." It had hurt, too. Those cuts at his throat had hurt for a long time. "There were a few moments when I was sure he was gonna kill me. After." It was all he could bring himself to say.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said.

"Not your fault," Trip replied quietly. "I was lucky that he wasn't very strong. I got a hold of the knife and then Owens came in."

Malcolm was silent for a moment, then he took another swift sip of scotch, set his glass on the table and got up. Trip watched as he went over to his kitchen unit and opened a cupboard, not sure what was going on until a feline sound of approval came from the bed. Stinky, who had been curled up on Malcolm's bunk, was at Malcolm's feet in an instant, weaving between his legs and purring loudly.

Malcolm grinned and came back to the sofa, the cat following him eagerly.

"What's that?" Trip asked when he noticed the small blue jar in Malcolm's hand.

"Salmon Treats." Malcolm unscrewed the lid. "He goes bonkers just from the smell of them. Watch this."

He tilted the jar so that one of the brown kernels fell into his palm, then placed the treat on his shoulder. Stinky, who had been watching with single-minded concentration, began to climb Malcolm's leg and clambered up his side until he had reached the shoulder, where he triumphantly devoured his prize. Once it was gone, Malcolm fed him another one and sat back down on the couch with the cat contently perched on his shoulder.

Trip laughed. "That's somethin' else. You teach him that?"

Malcolm nodded. "Actually, he mostly taught himself. He could do it even before we were gone, and it seems that his culinary memory is quite reliable."

Trip shook his head, still grinning. "Add a white beard and you'd look like a wizard with a cat on your shoulder."

He reached for the jar with the treats and Stinky immediately left his vantage point to climb into Trip's lap and meow imperiously. Wanting to see if Malcolm's trick would work with him, too, Trip took out a treat and moments later a happily munching cat was sitting on his shoulder, claws digging into the fabric of his t-shirt.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes I wonder if it's me he likes or rather my ability to function as a tin-opener."

Grinning, Trip lifted Stinky off his shoulder and set him down on his lap. "I'd say he thinks that's what you are."

As if to second the statement, Stinky meowed, then curled up on Trip's lap and began to purr. Leaning back on the couch, Trip stroked the animal's soft fur and suddenly noticed that Malcolm was watching him with a small smile. At first, he didn't know what it was about, until their earlier conversation re-entered his mind. He had completely forgotten about it over Stinky's little climbing trick.

"You did that on purpose."

Malcolm blushed faintly, but the smile stayed on his face. "I find that it helps," was all he said, and Trip nodded.

They sat in silence for a while and sipped their drinks, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Malcolm suddenly raised his head again and scrunched his eyes shut with a sigh.

"I'm going to have one hell of a hang-over in the morning."

Trip chuckled. "Can't hold your own booze, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm opened one eye to glare at him. "Let's discuss this in the morning when you'll be the one crawling to the resequencer for a cup of coffee."

Ruefully, Trip admitted to himself that Malcolm was probably right; after almost half a year of complete abstinence, he would most likely feel like a zombie in the morning.

He raised his glass as if in response and emptied it of its contents. "Don't care. Nothin' like livin' in the present."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Your motto for the evening?"

"Yep."

"Well, in that case... as they say, the night is young."

Trip grinned at him. "It sure is."

Epilogue to come up soon!

Please let me know what you think!


	29. Epilogue

Thanks to everybody who stuck with my monster story until the very end, and a selection of Pineapple Crunchies and Pecan Delights to all those who left reviews!

Sorry for the delay in posting the epilogue!

Epilogue

Trip tugged at his collar. It was so tight that he could hardly wedge a finger in between the fabric and the skin, and the hot sun burning down on the Court of Reception wasn't helping. He could feel sweat trickling down his back and neck. Damn robes. He tugged at the collar again, and there was a faint noise like stitches popping.

Jon, who was standing a few feet away, shot him a warning look and Trip quickly lowered his hand. He was fairly sure that somewhere in the Ng'wai protocols, there was a paragraph stating that it wasn't allowed to tug at your ceremonial robes during the Reception Ceremony, even if said ceremony seemed to take forever and took place in the sweltering sun.

Trip shifted his stance a little and looked back at the front of the court, where the Ng'wai priests were gathered around the Sacred Fire. Hoshi had told them that the Reception Ceremony included burning herbs and flowers from every country on the planet so the honored guests would be greeted by the scents of the Ng'wai homeworld. Trip would have appreciated the gesture, if the Ng'wai hadn't turned out to have several dozen small countries on each of their six continents. Every flower had to be conveyed to the Sacred Fire in a small basket and, to the chants of the priests, burned slowly until the wind had scattered its ashes.

The sonorous voice of the High Priest rose up again, and Trip watched as a pink blossom fluttered into the golden vat that contained the Sacred Fire. The flames flickered and began to devour the flower, accompanied by quiet alien chants. After more than two hours in this heat, Trip found that he was beginning to sympathize with the plants; he felt as if he himself were slowly being fried.

He glanced at Malcolm, who didn't seem to be hot at all, even though he was clad in the same heavy robes as the rest of them. His eyes were straight ahead, and somehow he managed to look dignified in spite of the bright blue streak in his hair, which started at his forehead and tapered off at the nape of his neck. His forehead was painted a dark orange, courtesy of Phlox' make-up skills. The doctor had had entirely too much fun preparing the away team for their visit to the planet, Trip thought darkly, remembering the doctor's delight as he had puttered about with make-up tubes and hair dye. When Trip had looked into the mirror afterwards, a zombie with a pale green forehead and black-streaked hair had stared back at him. At least his color code was fairly subdued; blue and orange Malcolm had suffered his share of ribbing on the trip down to the surface. Trip made a mental note to pin a photo of Malcolm in his "Armament Master" get-up to Tactical when they got back; that was, if he managed to take a picture of him without being killed. That ceremonial sword did look quite menacing.

Another round of chanting started, and Trip returned his attention to the front of the court. Hot and uncomfortable as he was, he wouldn't have wanted to pass up on the chance to visit the Ng'wai planet. The aliens had taken their time until they had allowed the "honorable guests" to enter their soil; long enough, in fact, for Trip and Malcolm to be reinstalled as Armory Officer and Chief Engineer in the meantime. The message from Starfleet Command had arrived only a few days ago; a curt, to-the-point note that Starfleet Medical had examined Phlox' reports and saw no reason why Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed shouldn't return to duty. Well, on condition that they continue their counseling sessions, but still, they were back in business, cleared to work full shifts and accompany the Captain on away missions. Trip wasn't sure how many strings Jon had pulled to keep them on Enterprise, and on second thought he didn't really want to know. He knew that he could do his job, even if a few headshrinkers back at Headquarters might think otherwise.

His team had welcomed him back with a little impromptu party in his office, and there had been rumors about a few pints of Guinness shared in the Armory on Malcolm's first day back, although the Lieutenant vehemently denied them. All the same, Trip knew that Malcolm was glad to be back; they both were. Things were back to normal; well, most things. There were the nightmares, and the times when he found a blank in his mind where some memory or detail was still eluding him. And he still hadn't come across a single meal that he didn't like. In this, he wasn't alone; a few days ago, he had walked into the messhall to find Malcolm chatting happily with Travis over a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Trip grinned at the memory. As for Travis, the ensign was all smiles these days, ever since Inga Carlsson had decided to stay on Enterprise as a Tactical Counselor.

The priests paused in their chanting, and Trip shifted his feet again. There couldn't be many flowers left; in fact, the table where they had been laid out seemed empty. The High Priest, an imposing elderly man whose hip-long gray hair was braided and adorned with colorful ribbons, raised his hands in a gesture that seemed to encompass the entire court.

"Welcome, honorable guests! May the scents of our world tint your visit with shades of harmony and show you that we wear the colors of peace!"

A gust of wind came up as he was still speaking. Flames flickered higher, and the smoke from the burned flowers and herbs was blown their way. Trip inhaled deeply, and found that he could indeed smell the vaguely spicy aroma of the many plants that had found their way into the Sacred Fire.

"Come closer, honorable guests!" the High Priest called.

Jon gave a slight nod to the rest of the team, and with slow, dignified steps led them towards the fire. They walked right into the billows of smoke and suddenly, there was a small explosion of sound next to Trip. He turned his head, and found Malcolm holding a hand in front of his nose, looking altogether quite shocked.

"Gesundheit," Trip said quietly, and Malcolm sneezed again, more violently this time, and again.

"Bloody hell," Trip could hear him mutter under his breath, and was hard pressed to bite back a grin.

Jon acted as if nothing had happened, even though the High Priest looked quite surprised.

"ACHOO!"

Trip glanced at Malcolm to find the Armory Officer in a very embarrassing situation, and quickly stepped over to put a folded piece of cloth into Malcolm's hand. His grandpa had taught him that a gentleman always had a handkerchief folded and ready, and right now, it was Malcolm's luck that he did.

"Here."

"Thanks," Malcolm muttered, now beet-red in the face. "Sorry."

"Is our honorable guest the Armament Master sound of body?" the High Priest wanted to know.

Malcolm nodded, his face buried in the handkerchief, and Hoshi added with a glance at the UT: "The Armament Master is sound of body and honored to be greeted by the scents of Ng'wai. He will be feeling better once our honorable hosts allow him to enter the Halls of Reception."

The High Priest accepted her explanation solemnly and extended a hand towards the entrance of the large palace adjoining the court.

"In that case, we shall not hesitate to guide our honorable guests to the meal table we have prepared for them."

"That's more like it," Trip said quietly to Malcolm as they followed Jon and the High Priest into a large hall, which was pleasantly cool after the hot court. A long table stood in the middle, laden with alien foods and, to Trip's relief, a number of beverages as well. He was feeling quite parched after standing in the sun for several hours. "Thank God for your allergies, or we'd still be out there."

Malcolm glowered at him, but before he could retort the High Priest raised his hands again. "Please, honorable guests, let us rejoice in the _n'kar _to thank theCreator before weenjoy our meal!"

"The ritual dance," Hoshi supplied to the team in a whisper, and Trip bit down on a sigh. Of course, the dance. They'd spent several hours in the gym before they'd finally gotten it right, and even Jon had to admit that if it weren't a ritual, the _n'kar_ could easily be mistaken for a bunch of people hopping around doing the pee dance. Maybe Travis was right and the Ng'wai _were_ taking the piss. If so, they were certainly being creative.

"But please," the High Priest continued, and Trip raised his head again. "If our honorable guest the Armament Master wishes to rest, he is welcome to sit down and recover his strength while the rest of us rejoice."

He waved for an attendant, who immediately hurried to the table and began to pour a cool beverage, while another one straightened one of the cushioned chairs. Malcolm was grinning like a Cheshire Cat, completely unconcerned by the sour looks from his fellow officers.

"The Armament Master is honored and grateful to our hosts for their kind consideration," he said as he walked towards the cushion chair.

Trip sighed as they assumed their starting position for the _n'kar_. At the same time, however, he couldn't help a small grin at the picture they must be presenting. Strange new worlds indeed... and even though he was aware that he was about to participate in some strange alien bunny hop dance, being sniggered at by one overly smug Englishman, he couldn't honestly say that he would want to have it any other way. It was good to be back.

* * *

"You can stop grinning now, you know," Trip said, but Malcolm only shrugged.

"It's the first time my allergies did me any good at all. That's worth celebrating in my eyes."

Trip couldn't help but laugh at that. They had returned from the planet about an hour ago, but had only just been released from decon; it had taken a while until Phlox had removed the thick layer of make-up from their foreheads. He had left the hair-dye, in case their presence was required on the surface once again.

All in all, the visit had been a success; the Ng'wai were delighted with their alien visitor's compliance with the Sacred Protocol, and had agreed to enter diplomatic relations with the "honorable people of the Faraway Blue Planet". At the moment, Jon was still on the surface working out the details with Ambassador Salmar.

Trip saw Malcolm tugging at his blue strands and grinned. "Looks good on you," he said, and when Malcolm glared at him added, "Just think of it as the Brit Punk look."

Malcolm doubled the wattage of his glare, and it was Trip's turn to shrug and grin. After weaseling out of the _n'kar_ dance, the Armory Officer had been insufferably smug and deserved a little teasing in return.

In the meantime, they had arrived at Trip's quarters. Trip glanced at his friend. "Care to join me for a beer? There's somethin' I've been meanin' to show you."

Malcolm nodded. "Sure."

Inside his quarters, Trip went over to his kitchen unit and opened the small refrigerator. Sharing a drink had become a habit for them long ago, and Trip knew that contrary to the stereotype, Malcolm liked his beer considerably below room temperature. He took out two cans, handing one of them to Malcolm, who had taken a seat on Trip's couch.

"Thanks." Malcolm leaned back, sighing as he took the first swig. "I needed that."

Trip nodded and lifted his own can to his lips. "Amen to that." Although the Ng'wai beverages had turned out to be quite good, they couldn't hold a candle to a cold beer.

Malcolm drank a little more, then set his can down on the table. "What was it that you wanted to show me?"

Trip took a padd from his desk and handed it to Malcolm. "Here."

Malcolm accepted it curiously. "What is it?"

"Scroll down the page."

Malcolm did, a frown appearing on his face as he read. "A prize for radiation discoveries, from Harvard University... Trip, this must be a hundred years old."

"It's from the year 2057, to be exact," Trip said. "Awarded to one Tobias Reynolds for developing a revolutionary method of insulating dangerous radiation."

"Tobias..." Malcolm's eyes widened. "Not Toby!"

"The one and only," Trip said. "It seems that his condition improved so much in the new asylum that they allowed him to start correspondence courses. Well, I guess one thing led to another after that."

Malcolm shook his head. "So he eventually built his own ray neutralizer."

Trip laughed. "Suppose he did."

"Good for him."

Trip nodded. "Yes," he said. "Absolutely."

The End

And, one more time... please leave a review and let me know what you think!


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